A Whistle in the Night
by Shirokokuro
Summary: Leading different lives on different sides, both Bruce and Tim are forced to come to grips with the people that mattered most to them: the people they could never save. Talon!Tim AU.
1. Eight

**Chapter One: Eight**

Dust rolled along the floor in small clouds as they were chased into the dust pan. The rhythmic motion of dragging the broom across the floor was automatic and simple, something Timothy Drake could relax into as he made his way slowly across the tiled kitchen floor.

There was a maid who came once a week, cleaned the whole place from top to bottom, but to his dismay, dirt always managed to ease through the porous window screens even after she'd gone.

Tim knew full well he could have closed them and the dust would have left, but he liked having the windows open, especially in summer: Birds were singing outside, their happy chatter ringing like sweet music, and wind would always find a way through the house to combat the heat, playing with the papers on the table. Sometimes they would blow the untouched business reports across rooms, and Tim would laugh to himself as he tried to catch them before they fell to the floor. It was a fun game he liked to play when he was alone.

And so, he kept the windows open and swept instead, losing himself in the easy action of pulling the broom back and forth.

Tim didn't mind being by himself. He'd become accustomed to it after eight years, and he convinced himself that he'd even grown to like the solitude of the big empty house.

But one thing he did not like was dust.

He decisively swept another pile into the pan.

Dust was something that only appeared when an object was left alone for too long; it was the tangible form of the word "forgotten," gathering forlornly as if to signal that whatever it fell upon was unimportant, unneeded and unwanted.

Tim hated it, hated it because sometimes he worried that he'd wake up one day and find himself covered in it and would never be able to shake it off.

He deposited the pan's contents into the garbage, relishing the grainy sound it emitted as the refuse poured out.

A few pictures on the refrigerator called for his attention in front of him. Usually Tim did his best to ignore them, but this time, he glanced up uninterestedly, eying the dozens of postcards tacked to the shiny surface.

Mom and Dad always sent them. Every cruise, every dig, every business trip heralded the arrival of another flashy photograph with a hastily-scrawled "We miss you!" embellishing the back like a tacky souvenir. The door of the refrigerator was covered with them.

Tim finished emptying the pan and set it back on the ground, continuing his mundane task.

It went on like that for another hour; he let himself stop only when he was sure there wasn't another speck of dust in the whole house.

* * *

A loud crack roused him from sleep. Tim bolted upright, ears perked in anticipation of another sound.

The house remained stubbornly silent. That wasn't something that should have bothered him, the logical part of his brain complained. He'd probably just imagined the sound somewhere between sleeping and waking.

Tim swung his legs over his bed anyway and slid the rest of the way to the ground, ignoring the chill floorboards under his bare feet as he made his way to the light switch on the other side of the room.

 _Click…Click…._

Nothing.

He flipped the switch a few more times before letting his hand fall, the only light in the room the distant shapes flickering through an open window. _Something must be wrong with the circuit breaker_ , he registered distantly. Looking back, he should've just gone back to bed, treated the problem as something that could have been handled in the morning with a simple phone call.

But the investigative part of him argued that no circuit breakers make a crack like shattered glass, and he cautiously peered out from behind his bedroom door into the hallway.

Empty.

It might have even been possible to convince someone that no one had traversed the corridor for years. But against the odds, a small child of eight crept through it and down the grand staircase his father always made a point of mentioning whenever they hosted guests.

"It's absolutely divine, Mr. Drake."

His father would tap the handrail as if it were a war horse that had led him to victory many a time. "It's modeled after the one in the Petit Trianon. Very expensive, as you can imagine. But you know Janet. She loves the classics."

His father hadn't been wrong: Everything in the estate was based upon that principle, all "classic" and "expensive" and _old_ —so old they could break simply by virtue of existing. _That's probably what happened_ , a voice in his head chimed. _You're overreacting_.

And Tim almost listened to it, that nagging presence in the back of his mind recalling that they had an alarm system and everything was fine. Only…

Only the alarm was linked to the electricity.

Which was nonoperational.

Tim's eyes sank closed, his whole body following suit onto the stairs, as the numbing realization set in. No, he wasn't overreacting; he had ample reason to be scared.

After a moment of controlled breathing, he dared to peek through the lavish and overpowering guardrail down to the entryway. The foyer was also vacant, white tile gleaming up at him as if to inquire innocently why he was still awake. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Completely quiet. Until it wasn't.

"Wait! I didn't mean to steal from you guys! If I'd known it was you, I never would've…!" The new voice was panicky and guttural, like it was struggling to breathe. "I'll pay it all back—I swear!"

Foreboding silence.

The voice continued desperately, "Why do you think I'm here? I just need more time to get the funds together!" Breaking pottery accompanied the splintering of wood furniture against the floor. "No, no! Please!"

Tim hated the piece of him that calculated which room the blood-curdling scream had come from, the angle at which the Victorian armoire had toppled, and the identities of each and every ceramic dish that was no-doubt now speckled crimson.

He fumbled to shut down his brain and blend into the sparse shadows the guardrail threw back on him. It was hard to decipher if the metalwork he was clinging to was a shield or a cage, only distantly realizing that he was scratching the black paint his father had bragged about so often.

"But aren't you worried about having such a young boy around a masterpiece like this?" Tim recalled an older patron asking pointedly one night.

"That's why we bought this specific one," his mother had supplied cheerfully, linking an arm in her husband's. "The spindles are closer together, you know. Much less risk of Timothy falling and hurting himself if we're not around."

 _If_ we're not around _._

Tim chose to ignore the conditional and focus on the sentiment, the thought that his parents had cared about him getting hurt. The more he clung to that one idea, though, the more he began to question if it had really happened at all, if he had perhaps dreamed up the whole thing and was going to die without his parents ever having worried about their only son.

He shoved the thought back to the corner of his mind to focus on keeping his breathing quiet and maintaining any semblance of motor control that shock hadn't already ripped from his body. _It doesn't sound like it involves me. Not a ransom. They probably thought no one was home. Just don't be stupid and panic._ He clamped his eyes shut as if it would make the whole situation disappear like a bad dream. _Don't panic. You're fine._

It became a mantra founded in a denial so strong that he almost convinced himself that no one had materialized one step beneath him, that no knife was poised in front of his face—so close that he could feel the metallic chill.

Tim knew he should've opened his eyes. He should've been able to stare down the trespasser and be brave. But he was only eight. Eight and alone and about to meet the same fate as whoever else had been downstairs. He hated that he wasn't like normal kids, whose natural response would have been to scream or run or fight back.

But the estate was far away enough that no one would hear him if he screamed or see him if he ran or help him if he fought; there was no point. He was on his own with whoever the person was, someone who was six feet on the dot. Likely 200 pounds. Male. The subtle clinking of armor told him he was probably like the crazies Batman and Robin locked up on the morning news.

"What are you doing, child?"

The timbre was tinny and deep, like it had echoed through a church bell before reaching Tim's ears. It was so jarring that it startled the eight-year-old into opening his eyes, locking with the passive gleam of orange lenses and an eclipsed form, head tilted slightly to the side with an interest one would pay a Sudoku puzzle in the Sunday paper.

"You're not begging," the figure commented matter-of-factly.

"No—" Tim was surprised his voice didn't squeak. He used the small confidence boost to continue, letting his grip slacken on the guardrail. "No, I'm...thinking."

The shadow's head inclined even further to the side in curiosity, and Tim was aware of eyes glazing over him from behind the lenses' sheen. He continued to match the gaze from over the knife tip even though his instincts told him to take the chance and book it. He was sure his legs wouldn't have worked, anyway.

"What is your name, child?"

It took Tim a moment to remember, the revelation that it might not be the end for him yet causing his brain to short-circuit. "Ti—Timothy," he finally forced out.

"And is there no one here save us?"

The staircase was pregnant with pause as Tim parsed the sentence. For a split second, he almost misheard it: _Is there no one here to save us?_ He blinked up at the lenses with a strangely-sympathetic feeling churning in his chest before the true meaning crashed into him.

"Answer truthfully, young one," the voice pressed impatiently.

"It's just me," Tim answered on the breath of an exhale, still painfully aware of the blade's edge hanging inches from his face.

The specter hummed thoughtfully in reply and rolled his wrist so that the knife's curved edge faced upward, pressed closer to the underside of Tim's chin. "You have witnessed something you should not have, child. I _should_ kill you."

A pause.

"But it was not willed by the Court," the figure continued, unmoving. "And it is beneath me to kill children." Tim instinctively tipped his head back when the blade guided his chin upward. "But what to do with you…?"

It sounded like the shadow was contemplating a matter as trivial as what to eat for breakfast the next day.

After a telling moment, it seemed he had reached a decision. The knife fell back to the figure's side, letting Tim's gaze slide down to his lap.

"…Follow."

Tim didn't—couldn't—move, still struggling to process the new development. His heart was beating so loudly, drumming in his eardrums with such vigor that he feared it was audible to the other person in the foyer.

But if he could hear it, the man never said. He had since glided down to the entryway and was cleaning the blood from one of his knives, back to Tim. He paused, knife in hand, as he addressed the boy from over his shoulder. "If you choose to stay, you choose to die."

The ultimatum was enough to drive Tim to his shaky feet and join the figure downstairs.

The lighting was better there. Tim could make out all the intricacies of the shoulder plates, the gauntlet on the man's left hand, and the golden claws glistening on each and every finger. An aquiline beak emerged from a hooded mask between the orange lenses. They paid him no heed as they refocused on the throwing knife.

"What's your name?" Tim finally worked out, praying the sentence came out smoother than it did in his head. The casual conversation was one he imagined would fit in perfectly at his school's cafeteria—not with a murderer whose victim's blood still tainted the air. But Tim was desperate to distract himself from that last fact, and small talk was one of the few ways he knew how.

It turned out not to be too bad a move.

The figure stopped for a beat before turning his attention to the boy. "You may call me Talon," he answered, fixing him with an empty stare.

"Talon," Tim repeated obediently after averting his eyes. The intensity of such a gaze was something he was unaccustomed to.

In response, the man gave an approving grunt and slipped his knife into a scabbard behind his back. The overwhelming presence exuded from the figure made Tim scarily aware of the food-chain that existed between them.

"We must leave this place now," Talon remarked flatly and began weaving through the first floor into the kitchen where broken patio doors let in the crisp air. The assassin stepped over the threshold with ease and continued into the night.

But Tim hesitated when his vision caught on the dozens of postcards, dutifully keeping vigil from their place on the refrigerator. A smiling couple beamed at him in all of them—always hundreds of miles out of his grasp.

 _"We miss you, darling!"_

The words drove Tim to chase after the one person who waited for him within reach.


	2. Nine

_AN: Thank you to the guest reviewer! I hope you like this chapter as well._

 _I'm trying to base this Talon loosely on the one in the_ Batman vs. Robin _movie._

* * *

 **Chapter Two: Nine**

The first weeks had been tough, Tim recalled. Not because of anything Talon had done to him but because of what he _hadn't_ done. The man had hardly spoken, barely interacted with him at all. He provided the bare minimum and nothing more—as if waiting to see if Tim would crack like any normal rich kid would.

But Tim was used to bare minimum, to sunlight and water and days of sitting alone on a windowsill. And if nothing else, he was smart: He wouldn't have put it past Talon to do what he should have done the first night they'd met. So, Tim had sucked it up and made do.

 _Someone will probably come looking for me soon_ , he remembered thinking one day. _This isn't going to be forever._

But as days had stretched into weeks, Tim had begun to realize his stay was more permanent than he'd anticipated.

After taking time to acknowledge the betrayal of being lost and un-looked for, the optimist in him said life could've been worse. The creativity and low-expectations Tim had nurtured growing up had made it relatively easy to whittle the hours away. Besides, there were lots of interesting things in the loft Talon had led him to, myriads of sturdy-looking armor with matching halberds and throwing stars adorning the walls.

He had been terrified to mess with them at first, but once he'd memorized the nightly schedule his overseer had, it had become more and more tempting to break a few rules. Tim had always returned them exactly to where they'd been before, of course, and he'd gotten away with it for quite a while. At least, until one morning when Talon had come home earlier than expected.

For the longest minute of his short life, Tim had waited on bated breath, hovering over one of the shuriken he had placed on the wooden floor. After pausing half-way through the window where his lenses had locked on the unusual sight, Talon entered and soon was standing over both the boy and his own weaponry.

It had been arranged into a make-shift checker board.

Tim would have been amused had he not been so terrified, praying that whatever end was coming would be quick and painless.

But the man had simply slid one of the pieces forward with his foot and vanished to the rafters without a word. Seconds later found Tim still unable to believe what he'd seen.

The gesture was small, but it turned out to be a turning point in their short story.

* * *

Even a year later, Tim still wasn't sure what had possessed him the day he'd left the estate with Talon.

Maybe it was fate. Talon talked about it enough, explained that it excused why some people had to die and some people had to live. "You weren't fated to die that day, child," he would say, sharpening his knives with an omnipresent disinterest. "But there are people who have made this city ugly. The Court will not let that stand, and I will not either."

Tim had accepted the explanation without remark.

Either way, the Drake Estate was so far removed from Tim in the loft that it felt his life sweeping its floors was simply a short-lived dream. He could hardly even recall the smiling faces on the postcards his parents used to send, the words he suspected they must have written on the back but could no longer remember.

He distantly felt guilty that he hadn't even left a note when he'd disappeared. _But they didn't look for me, anyway…_

Tim bit back the feeling and re-immersed himself in a book, curling up further in the corner. He was reaching the end, the pages he'd already read piling up against the cover and making it a constant balancing act to continue. He wrestled another page down and reburied himself in it until there was nothing left to bury himself in.

He snapped the cover closed with a sense of finality, ignoring the cloud of dust he'd disturbed (It was a part of life in the loft that he'd learned to overlook.) just as Talon slipped through the open skylight. He was unharmed as usual, not a single piece of his uniform out of place as he straightened to his full height. Without greeting, he set about returning his knives to their spot on the wall.

Tim's eyes followed him patiently. On mornings when Talon was tired, only a few words passed between them, but at the very least, he always came back. Always unscathed. Always by dawn. Tim never said so, but he appreciated the predictability of it. And the company, even if most of it was just parallel play.

Tim surmised Talon had grown to enjoy it as well; it was never voiced openly, but Tim could gather in rare, fleeting moments that the companionship of a child meant something to the man.

After all, it was only a few months ago that Talon had first revealed his face to him, simply taking off his disguise one night like the action was nothing monumental. Tim had decided never to comment on it. Neither did Talon. But Tim had noticed how he continued to remove the mask every morning since.

That morning was no exception, Talon disregarding the cloth on the bust of a mannequin he kept for his armor. It always surprised Tim how easily it came off for something that seemed so integral to who he was.

"Finished?" the man finally offered once he'd removed his shoulder plates. Talon gestured to the book in Tim's hands with his simple, green eyes.

"Yes, sir," Tim replied, placing the tome on a pile of other completed books. Talon made a point to find more for him whenever he'd finished, bringing them back in the dead of night from God knew where—Tim certainly never asked—and dumping them on the floor wordlessly before retiring for the day.

At first, the man had appeared with the books as if he had the intention to read them himself, but books' spines were the kind of bones Talon never broke, and soon Tim got the impression that they'd been intended for him all along. Like Talon had become aware that being cooped up in a cage all day would grow old for a nine-year-old. Like he understood Tim could merely sneak out while he was gone and that would be the end of their time together—one way or another.

But Tim reasoned there wasn't much for him to go home to anyway, so he hadn't left, instead making a habit of staying up all night to wait for the man's return. It was as if both were daring the other to abandon them, and so far, neither had given in. That stubbornness—maybe even devotion—was the weak ballast holding their relationship upright.

And thus, Talon would arrive occasionally with new books, and Tim stayed.

"Did you practice today?" the man spoke again as he situated himself on the floor in front of a low-sitting table. He busied himself with running a knife along a brick of whetstone, doing it more out of habit than necessity, the blade hardly dull at all.

Tim crossed the room to join him at the table. "I did, sir."

Talon hummed in a way Tim interpreted as encouraging, attention still pinned to the dagger in his grasp. "Do you think you're improving?"

Tim spared a glance to one of the training dummies as if to make his point. Although he wasn't the most physically adept, he couldn't help swelling a bit in pride at the mangled shape of it, one of the arms dangling out of its socket while a number of well-aimed knives remained embedded in its chest. "I think so."

Talon hummed again, this time more cryptic. "I see."

Silence resettled over the pair, punctuated by the careful ringing of the blade against the stone. Normally, Tim would have gone back to his pile and picked up another book, but that night, with the dagger glistening feet in front of him, he couldn't keep himself from voicing a question that had long been on his mind.

"…why don't you ever take me with you?"

Talon didn't hesitate in his task, permitting the sentence to hang in the air before responding. "I am an assassin, child."

Tim surveyed the man's face carefully, the caramel bangs that hid his eyes from view and the blank expression that never faltered. It was the mask he always wore underneath his physical one. Tim was beginning to wonder if he'd ever take it off.

"I know you're an assassin," Tim surrendered in a dismal tone. "I've known that ever since we first met."

"Have you, now?" the man rejoined rhetorically, his voice relaying an indifference that didn't quite fit the conversation. "But do you know what that means?"

"…"

Talon pulled his knife back to observe it under the sparse sunbeams that filtered through the skylight. The metal absorbed the happy dawn and reflected it back, shining darkly. His eyes flickered over the blade's tip thoughtfully. "When a man kills another, who do you think suffers more?"

The question took Tim by surprise. "…the one who's killed," he eventually answered, more because he knew that was what Talon wanted him to say.

The man gave an approving nod. "One would think that to be the case."

Talon returned the blade to the whetstone, the thoughtful twinkle preserved in his otherwise dull eyes. "When a man is killed, his body dies. It may be fleeting; it may be excruciating. The nature of his death does not truly matter. In any case, the man who kills suffers infinitely more because of what he loses."

Forty. A part of Tim registered that it was more words than the man had ever uttered at once.

"Do you know why that is, young one?"

Tim answered with silence.

"Murder is not natural to mankind," Talon continued, not looking away from his work. "So, when man commits it, he loses more than his life. In fact, it would be better for him if that were the case."

The echo of the knife resounded through the air like a pendulum, even and foreboding.

"Because when a man kills another, he kills his humanity. Do you understand me, child?"

Tim dipped his head once.

"…and do you understand what that makes me?"

Talon must have gathered that he didn't. "With the amount of blood on my hands, I can no longer be called human. And if you did, neither could you. _That_ is why I cannot permit you to come with me."

Tim chewed at the side of his cheek as he digested the notion. He wanted to push the topic more, to dig a bit and find some key to the humanoid puzzle that sat in front of him. "I don't… _have_ to kill anyone," he pressed, knowing full-well he was working against his best interests. "I could just tag along."

"Nonetheless, the temptation would still be there. Let alone if _they_ managed to kill _you_."

Tim had to hide his smile at that. "I thought you said it would be better to die than to kill," he remarked slyly—like he'd caught the man in his own lie.

Talon eyed him with an expression that flirted with discomfort before getting to his feet. "We are done discussing this, child," he concluded shortly as he replaced the knife on the wall. "You're never to accompany me."

Tim wanted to ask what the point of the martial arts training was then, why he even kept him around if Tim couldn't be of use. The idea that maybe Talon didn't want anything in return was foolish. That didn't mean it wasn't a tempting one to entertain, though: that Talon wanted nothing more than for Tim to be there when dawn came.

But even if Tim had built up the courage to ask, it was too late. Talon had drifted to a separate room.

The moment had passed.

* * *

Hours later found the two still skirting around each other. Talon had retreated to his uncanny brevity, Tim to his collection of books. The younger of the two was still dwelling on their conversation, though, turning over every word as his eyes gleaned the pages half-heartedly. He peeked out from over the hard-cover to see what the man was up to.

As expected for a night owl at noon, Talon had dozed off, sitting against the wall with his arm propped up on a knee. A sliver of sunlight sprinkled down on him, distinguishing every speck of dust that fell onto his sleeping figure.

There was something noble about it, the statuesque form coated with dust in its solitude. But even more than that, there was something strongly, horribly sad.

The scene reminded Tim of those star-crossed love stories girls at school had raved about, a member of royalty falling into an eternal slumber with only love to revive them. Only this person was nothing like that. He'd simply given up hope, resigning himself to endless sleep without thinking that there could be anything more.

The comparison was silly, he acknowledged, but the intensity of the image compelled Tim to move closer, so close that he found himself sitting directly in front of the man before he could stop himself.

Talon looked just as impassive in sleep as he did when he was awake, and although Tim was still young, he could recognize a dignified handsomeness about him, like he was the kind of person the gossips who frequented his parents' banquets would gawk at but never get to know.

Tim could relate to that feeling. The thought pushed a cheerless sigh from his lips.

"Is something wrong, child?"

Tim almost jumped out of his skin, fumbling to pull together a reason why he'd been staring at the man for a solid two minutes. It took him longer than he liked to admit.

"Can't sleep," he lied dumbly, gaze glued to the floor.

Talon kept his eyes closed. "Is that so?"

Tim grunted out an affirmative, not trusting himself to open his mouth again.

"Lie down," Talon finally suggested after letting the boy struggle for a while longer. "I hear that helps."

Tim nodded despite knowing the man couldn't see the gesture and moved to the wall next to him before curling in on himself on the floor. He kept a careful distance, aware that the only times Talon could be touched was when they were sparring, but it was still closer than the man had ever permitted him before.

And that was fine with Tim.

After all, he was a bit of a loner too.


	3. Ten (I)

**Chapter Three: Ten (I)**

Tim crossed off another tally on the wall. "500," he announced to the empty room. The boy settled back on his heels, discarding the knife to his side with a frustrated snort. "I can't believe this."

The fluttering of wings in the rafters told him he'd disturbed the birds who had made their home up above, but Tim didn't care.

"500 days!" he repeated a little louder, covering the spot on the wall where he'd kept count. He spared a glance up as if one of the barn owls, round, obsidian eyes gleaming from over a beam, was hanging on every word. "And nothing! No one!"

He stood up, tugging at his shaggy, black hair.

It hadn't bothered Tim that much in months; he'd gotten over the idea that no one was looking for him over a year ago.

But then a police car just _had_ to park directly below the window of the loft, blue and red lights whirring. It had caught his attention in a vice grip, stirring some kind of homesickness in him he hadn't even realized he'd had.

He had watched conflictedly from the windowsill, the lights flashing across the pane, as he'd waited for something to happen. There'd been a delay, and then—as if on cue—an officer had stepped out of the car, slipping down the street with a hand on her radio before vanishing around a corner. She'd reappeared fifteen minutes later with what must have been her partner, pointing at something she'd written on a notepad while her teammate nodded his head.

Then, they'd driven away.

Fifteen minutes. That was it. Fifteen minutes.

And it was driving Tim insane.

He hadn't really wanted to be found that day, having grown oddly content with Talon and their guests in the rafters, but Tim had hoped that the police would have at least been looking—that his _parents_ would have been looking.

His dad knew some pretty big people. People who could easily find a kid hidden away right under their noses, right in Gotham—just a hop, skip, and a jump away.

One of Tim's fists collided with a post stretching up to the ceiling. The smarter part of him said that now he'd have splinters in his knuckles, that it'd sting all night. The angry part of him hoped it did.

By the time his forehead had fallen against the cool wood, it seemed he'd gained the full attention of his nocturnal audience, the biggest bird emitting an eerie cry before descending to the ground.

After a beat, it screeched again.

Tim's eyes slid over to it, which seemed to be what the bird had wanted, heart-shaped face tilted to the side as if to tell him to stop making such a racket.

"I know, I know." Tim sighed defeatedly, letting his eyes fall closed. "The missus doesn't like it." He turned to press his back against the post. "But at least you'd look for your kid if you lost one, right? You wouldn't just forget about them." He cracked his eyes open a sliver to watch the white-feathered creature. "You're more human than they are…"

The bird didn't reply, preening the plumage on its shoulder without paying him any mind.

"This kind of owl isn't loyal to humans, young one," Talon had said when they'd first uncovered them making a home in the rafters. It'd been a funny thing for him to say since the birds seemed to like him best. "Be careful not to get too close."

But a week later, it'd looked like one of the owls was offering a token of friendship when it had landed next to Tim, sweet-faced and unassuming. He had slowly put down his book and, in a moment of childlike innocence, stretched out a hand. Tim didn't know what he'd been expecting, but the long-nosed beak digging into his finger wasn't the experience he'd had in mind.

Talon had eyed the self-applied bandage for days as if to say, "You're an idiot," and Tim couldn't really argue.

Harsh feelings aside, the bird had stayed, and Tim had gained a scar.

He splayed his hand in the air in front of him, admiring the white streak along his forefinger. It had only just recently scarred over, and Tim knew that meant it'd be a life-long addition—that it'd always be a reminder not to get too close.

 _…Talon has lots of scars, too…_

"This is stupid," Tim erupted, letting his hand fall in a fist against the post behind him. "I don't think it's selfish to ask that my parents care. That's what they're supposed to do! It's not my job to hold up the whole relationship—to be the one person who thinks it matters if it all goes down the tubes!" The more he talked, the more his anger was gaining traction and running away with him. "I mean, _come on_! I was eight! The least they could do is show a little concern that I've fallen straight off the face of the earth! And for _500_ days!

"But no noise! No nothing!" He bit his lip as if trying to keep any more from tumbling out. "Whatever," he finally muttered when he'd calmed a bit, situating himself on the floor. "It's not like I care."

His listener clicked its beak amid the silence.

"Who am I kidding?" Tim jumped back to his feet and made his way over to the window. "I care! I care about them and about them not caring about me!" He stared down the window for a few breaths before cracking it open, looking to make sure the fire escape was below him. "I'm getting to the bottom of this—right now!"

The family of owls shrieked in unison when Tim swung a leg over the sill and then another.

"I'll be back before Talon comes home."

And with that, he slammed the window closed.

* * *

It wasn't until that moment that it hit him like a brick wall: It was the first time he'd stepped foot outside in over a year. One Thanksgiving. One Christmas. Two birthdays. The thought had crossed his mind, sure, to just hop through the window like Talon did every night. He never believed he'd actually do it, though.

But there he was, and as much as his stomach had decided it was a good time to play cat's cradle, to scream at him the gravity of what he was doing, he was determined to finish what he'd started.

He maneuvered down to street-level and reminded himself that he had to be fast to get back before sunrise, setting off in the direction he knew would take him to his childhood home.

Gotham was overwhelmingly different to say the least, like Tim had been lying whenever he'd said this foreign city was home. But he weaved through the streets well enough and after two hours had ended up in front of the family estate. Like the rest of Gotham, it looked drastically unlike the way he remembered it, a happy garden nested on the other side of the gated entrance—nothing like the stoic one he'd seen in the rear-view mirror on his way to boarding school every fall. The fountain in the middle of the courted drive-way was new too, and the house face was now painted a mockingly cheery red.

The irony of it all gave Tim the wherewithal to launch himself over the gate and sneak up the lawn. He remembered the gaps in his family's security system enough to avoid the spots he knew would hold sensors and condemning camera angles, winding through the yard until he was crouched beside one of the lightless windows. The moon was making it just bright enough outside to reflect the glass, keeping him from seeing inside.

It didn't matter. Tim already could tell no one was home, was counting on it.

He strained to pop the window up (He'd learned the hard way when he was younger that that one was the easiest to jimmy open.) and clambered in.

It took a moment of blind fumbling to find the switch. But once Tim did, it was obvious that the outside of the mansion wasn't the only thing that'd underwent a shocking transformation in his absence.

Family photos and awards decorated almost every inch of the living room—walls, dressers, coffee tables. There were graduation pictures, postcards, wedding invitations, elementary school artwork… The prolificity of them would have come off as narcissistic if there wasn't an undeniable love pouring out of every frame.

Tim stared at the image for a long time.

It was all wrong.

The mood of the house was wrong, yes, but there was something even more pressing, _more_ wrong, shouting out to him in each mounted photo...

He didn't recognize any of them.

A family of strangers had moved in to fill the void that the Drake's had used to cherish.

The soccer trophies must've belonged to the oldest daughter, the forensics awards to the youngest. A twentieth anniversary card sat proudly on a desk. The lengthy note on the inside hinted that the parents' marriage was a happy one.

It all hit Tim with such an intensity that he felt he shouldn't stay there, scrambling back through the window and snapping it shut.

It took him a while longer to move again, partially because of the nausea that struck him at the thought of another, _happy_ family living in the old Drake Estate—and partially because of the unavoidable question that followed: If his parents weren't there, then where were they?

* * *

Tim did his best to blink the stars from his eyes. He was barely aware that he'd been flipped on his back, his training staff clattering somewhere on the other side of the loft.

Talon loomed over him with his usual disinterest. "You're distracted."

Tim knew the difference between an observation and an invitation. "Yeah," he replied bluntly and went to retrieve his weapon.

"No more." Talon leaned his own staff against the wall, indicating that Tim do the same. "That's enough for today."

Tim was secretly grateful for the break, his entire body aching deep into his bones. He was regretting every last splinter that had speared his knuckles the night before, and the pain stubbornly dragged his mind back to what he'd discovered at his old home.

Talon had caught on to Tim's mood almost instantly. From the moment he'd returned, he'd been doing nothing but sending him raised eyebrows in addition to his typical, deadpan expression.

He did so again before turning to his armored mannequin. He slipped his feet into his boots and readjusted the knee guards. "I have an assignment tonight," he commented simply.

It caused Tim to perk up from where he'd been placing his staff.

Talon had an assignment every night. It was nothing unusual. But the man never said anything without a purpose, leading Tim to think that maybe he'd somehow learned about his galivanting the previous night. Or, at the very least, suspected it.

It was a suspicion Tim realized he'd have to smooth out.

"I'll be here when you get back."

Talon looked at him hard for a minute before making his way to the open window. "…Alright," he muttered, back toward him, before dissolving into the night.

Tim watched the spot where the man had stood a moment earlier. It reminded him how fragile their relationship was, built entirely around the premise that Tim remained and Talon returned alive.

Tim didn't want to risk jeopardizing that.

But he also had to know what'd happened to his parents, and it gave him the nerve to sneak out once again.

* * *

The library seemed a good a place as any to find some answers.

Tim hadn't expected to uncover anything conclusive, but his family was not an uncommon presence in archaeological magazines, and the library's collection was pretty comprehensive—assuming the building hadn't changed like everything else in Gotham.

Luckily, it was still operational and, better yet, still open until 10.

Having survived a close encounter with a librarian who could've recognized him, Tim had a good two hours to spend downstairs with the archives. The basement was comfortably vacant, the musty smell of aged paper a welcome and familiar scent.

His parents used to spend all day researching on the second floor before heading to dig sites, occasionally allowing him to come too. The bitter-sweet nostalgia convinced him that the place would hold some clue as to where they'd gone.

Tim yanked the pull-chain switch to the old ceiling light and turned his attention to scouring the metal filing cabinets.

He'd gone through almost two years' worth of archaeology magazines before realizing it wasn't getting him anywhere. Noticing that he'd already squandered half his time, he hurriedly dug up some newspapers and dumped them on the table. Things went downhill from there, a free-for-all of paper-cuts and ripped pages breaking out as Tim skimmed through them at break-neck speeds.

He almost feared that he'd have to come back the next night when he pulled out a binder of _Gotham Gazette_ reports around June 18th, the day he'd disappeared. It was too close to the incident to explain much about why his parents had sold their old home or where they'd gone.

Essentially, it held no promise.

But he'd been wrong.

He'd finally found his answer, a news report from two years ago, June 17th, that explained it all.

They'd never moved, never been featured in another magazine article.

No.

Instead, there'd been a car crash.


	4. Ten (II)

_AN: *slides forward appetizer angst* sorry for this…_

* * *

 **Chapter Four: Ten (II)**

The odor of painkillers and heavy-duty solvents became more and more tolerable with every visit. Steady breathing against a tube and years of unspoken words hung in the air, more overwhelming than the smell and the rattling of gurneys outside that reminded Tim he had to be careful doing this.

Even though it was a constant risk, he tried to go once a week at least, if not every night. But as much as the hospital was nerve-wracking in and of itself, it wasn't what made Tim choose to stay at the loft sometimes. No, it was always the hours of sitting on the ledge of a hospital room window, looking at someone who couldn't look back, that was too tiring, even for Tim.

But whether it be out of duty or guilt or spite, Tim still went.

It was his third month living that double life: days spent with Talon, nights spent with his comatose father.

The accident had happened in New York on their way to a conference, the report had revealed. 72 degrees. Sunny. His mom had died instantly.

Every time Tim thought about it, he realized his father didn't know about that either, still stuck in a fantasy where his wife was in the car seat next to him and their son was waiting obediently at home. But their eight-year old had run away with an assassin, and his wife had been six feet under for years.

The shock of it all felt disgustingly new.

Perhaps _that_ was why Tim decided to spend the night in, the loft a world of its own—safely separated from the reality that while Tim had been waiting 500 days for his parents to do more, his dad had been waiting 500 days for his son to show up at his bedside.

There was a guilt there. Tim couldn't deny it.

But time with Talon was comparatively and infinitely easier than acknowledging that, usually spent trying to catch up on lost sleep or lost time, and it was too tempting to pass up right then.

Tim completed another lap of the room, distantly aware that he was tearing at something with his hands and that Talon was watching him from his place against the wall.

"Eat."

The word came to Tim in slow motion, his attention trained steadfastly forward as he ripped off another piece of bread and dropped it to the floor. One of the owls was shadowing him, bending to retrieve each scrap with its beak before continuing to trail him like a ghost. The pattering of its claws along the floor was the only sound in the room.

"Not hungry," Tim muttered. He retrieved another slice from the table and settled back into his pacing.

Talon's sight insisted on following him too, scrutinizing the sleeplessness that had appeared under the boy's eyes. Tim swore he'd heard a sigh. "Very well."

There was no doubt that Talon had learned about Tim's midnight wanderings by then. The chemical smell was too permanently fixed into Tim's clothes, practically a part of him by then, for it to go unrealized. And the brief change in their relationship was another indicator.

He'd noticed Talon out on longer assignments within the first few days, hardly coming back. And even when he had, the man had barely spoken a word outside of the occasional spar. It was like he'd been nursing some kind of wound that he'd tried to play off as nothing.

But Tim knew it wasn't nothing. And he'd never pushed it, feeling twice as guilty each night he snuck out but being twice as sure that he made it back on time every morning. That consistency must have built back some trust as, for the most part, things had returned to normal.

"What kind would you prefer next?"

"Hm?" Tim's head snapped to look at Talon.

The man had already changed into his uniform, dusting off his shoulder plate in an aloof fashion. "What kind of book?"

"Oh." Was it time for him to go already?

Tim brushed the breadcrumbs from his palms, the bird diving on them within a second. "Um…maybe a non-fiction one?" Tim wasn't sure, but fiction was charged with more emotion than he could stomach at the moment; they always made too much noise about betrayal and death and boys and their fathers.

Detached, to the point, and safe. That was what Tim needed right then.

It was why he'd been hoping Talon would stay for just a little longer.

"Yeah," Tim affirmed at the questioning look the man shot him, trying not to sound as down as he felt. "Non-fiction would be good."

Talon dipped his head simply to say he understood, gathered his weapons, and then he was gone.

* * *

There was an ever-present whirring of machines in the background, beeping monitors and glowing buttons trying to call attention to where Tim was and what had happened.

He'd already memorized the room by then, having been there so many times; it didn't faze him like it used to, so the boy simply turned another page of what he'd been reading and tuned out the noise.

It didn't take long for Tim to revisit how the book had fallen into his possession, making him crack a smile for the tenth time that night. Talon had stumbled through the window the previous morning, cradling a volume comically large (and notably dry) while the man himself was coated head to toe in snow.

An encyclopedia had been the last thing Tim had expected when he'd said non-fiction, but he'd accepted it with as straight a face as possible while his brain secretly made a habit of running over the picture of Talon looking amusingly irked, getting caught in a blizzard seemingly the last thing on his mind.

Tim looked up from the C's with a desire to share what he was giggling about, but the urge dissipated instantly.

The hospital room he could get used to—having to hide when the nurses came, the way the school clock ticked away above the door—but the sight of his father's face was unsettling every time he looked.

Somehow, the man had aged a lifetime in between years of sleep, wrinkles settling on his forehead and around his mouth that'd never been there before. It struck Tim how much things had changed over the years and—in a strange way—how much they'd stayed the same.

Tim snapped his mouth shut and let out a sigh from his nose.

A part of him knew he couldn't keep doing this.

Talon or his dad.

He couldn't have both of them.

Tim leaned his head back and let out another sigh. That decision had been all he'd been able to think about lately.

Talon was the safe choice. Despite the unorthodox lifestyle, he'd always been consistent. It was his dad who was the gamble.

Tim set down the book, a nauseous feeling building in his gut. Maybe the man could be more than just a face on a postcard, but Tim wouldn't be able to find out until he woke up—until Tim finally made up his mind if he wanted "stable" or "uncertain."

But the next morning when Tim returned to the loft, all he could think about was how the shelves that used to be stored with weapons now held hard-covers—and how a man who'd once hid his face had silently been asking him to stay.

Tim watched Talon with a distracted gleam in his eyes. The man was sanding out a chip in his armor, a rare souvenir from his nights with The Court, while sitting on the floor, and Tim couldn't bring himself to do much more than zone out to the consistent sound of smoothening metal.

"There's nothing keeping you here, child," Talon muttered abruptly in his regular monotone. The comment drove Tim from his thoughts.

"…I know."

Talon continued scrubbing at the armor, his pace picking up a fraction. "You could leave anytime."

"…I know."

The man looked up from his work as if he was half-expecting Tim to jump up and make for the nearest exit. But Tim stayed put, returning his gaze with a subdued glimmer in his eyes, and eventually Talon returned his own eyes to the metal in his hands.

"So long as you understand."

For a decision that had plagued Tim for weeks, it took all of the thirty second conversation for Tim to finally make up his mind.

* * *

However, being back among the stifling smell of the hospital made it hard to think about that. There was constant noise about the place, but somehow, it felt deafeningly silent.

Tim sucked in a deep breath.

"Dad…"

It was the first time Tim had ever spoken in that room, and part of him waited for something to happen, for one of the monitors to bounce and brown eyes to flutter open. But nothing changed, and Tim was silently grateful for it. It'd make it easier.

"I'm not coming home."

The words fell flat somehow, but Tim let them hover there anyway, distantly feeling dumb for talking to someone who might not even be able to hear him. He scratched awkwardly at the back of his head.

"Um…I just…" _I just wanted to tell you that._

"I just wanted to tell you that it hurt."

That hadn't been what he'd meant to say.

"It hurt, Dad. Every time you two left." Some underlying piece of him was horrified at the statement while another piece sighed that it was about time, relieved and begging for him to continue.

"I didn't realize it until I learned what it was like to live somewhere where people came back. And maybe they left for a time, but…" He shut his eyes with an expression somewhere between confusion and anger, picking his words an internal battle. "But they never left _me_.

"That's why I wouldn't come home, Dad. Because I don't know if…if when you wake up, you'll still be the same person you were before." He forced his eyes open to look at the silent man who quite possibly couldn't hear him—couldn't hear any of it, but Tim hoped his next words reached him somewhere.

"But more than that, I want you to know that I…I forgive you and Mom. You might not think you did anything wrong—" Tim choked out a laugh. "You're just so stubborn, you know? But even if it's just for me, I want you to know that. And that—" It was getting harder to talk around the tightness in his throat. "—that I hope you wake up someday, that you'll be okay. Because…"

He swallowed hard, blinking away something that felt suspiciously like a tear. "Because you're still my dad, and I don't want you to die…."

He scrubbed at his eyes, hating his voice for cracking and himself for crying. "I want to see you again— someday when I'm older—and maybe by then—" A laugh. "—Maybe by then I'll have the courage to say this to your face."

Tim wandered over to his father's bedside, a new resolve building in him that helped quell the flood of emotions. "So until then, you have to keep going, okay? You have to promise me that we'll talk again, face to face. By then I won't be a coward anymore, Dad. I promise I'll be braver if you promise you'll be there."

Tim reached down to take his hand. He rocked it gently against the wires, the best handshake he could manage. "Okay then? It's a promise." He sat down on the edge of the mattress, some part of him saying that that night was special and that he should linger just a little while longer.

And the next night left him wondering where it had all gone wrong.

Tim blinked once, taking in the empty room around him. The chart at the end of the bed had been cleared away about an hour ago as it had yet to be replaced, the sheets were smoothed over the mattress, and there was no sound aside from the crackle of gravel on pavement from outside the window. It'd felt like even the clock on the wall had stopped ticking.

If someone had woken up from a coma, it'd stand to reason that they'd be kept overnight at least. Even though he was only ten, Tim knew that, understood what it meant: The man had stubbornly stayed alive for two years, but the day after his son had finally poured his heart out to him, he'd gone.

All that was left was an empty hospital room and someone who knew deep down that it couldn't have gone any other way but still felt stupid for not seen it coming.

* * *

It was the trek back that was the hard part.

Tim knew he should've been upset, should've wanted to break something in two, but the discovery had left him feeling completely exhausted. A little blind-sided too, perhaps, but mostly wanting nothing more than to crawl home and sleep for years.

The chill February air didn't help matters, and even though the sky was clear, the stars looked uncharacteristically dim.

By the time he was standing on the familiar fire escape, it was hardly past two in the morning. _Talon won't be back for hours_ , Tim registered absently.

Once inside, he dragged the window closed, hesitating before drawing the blinds (It didn't matter. He was done sneaking out.) and lowering himself to the table on the floor. He observed the wood with a blank expression, eyes tracing one of the veins as it split off over and over across the table's surface.

There was a cruel irony about it all, that Jack Drake had died without keeping their one-way promise, that he'd miss seeing him grow up and doing every little mundane thing that meant nothing in a cosmic sense but meant everything to Tim. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed a fitting ending for them.

It could have been an hour, two hours that Tim had sat there, but by the time a gust of air brushed through the skylight, the only action he'd been able to manage was resting his forehead against the tabletop.

Tim wasn't sure if Talon had moved from where he'd landed, the man's footsteps always inaudible, but he was certain there were a pair of eyes trained on his back.

Tim didn't bother to look up. The silence stretched on.

And then, there was a faint noise near his ear, the sound of something being placed next to him on the table, an offering of sympathy. He felt the source of the gaze drift next to him and heard the shuffling of legs as the man sat down.

It fell quiet again.

After an eternity, it took all of Tim's effort to rotate his cheek to the tabletop—just enough so that his eyes were even with the spine of the book Talon had left there.

It was a detective story, something Tim usually enjoyed. Over the years, he'd read them with such animated expressions and gasps that Talon must have noticed at some point.

Tim knew he should have felt touched that the man had remembered—even more so since he'd gone out of his way to act on it. But at his core, Tim couldn't shake the empty hospital room from his mind.

It was like each second of his existence was another stake driven through his chest. There was an unbearable hurt there: one spawned from emotions that had never been communicated, words that had never been spoken, and a void that had never been filled—and, now, never could be.

Owls were fluffing their wings in the rafters, screeching noisily against the silence, and Talon continued to keep solemn vigil next to him.

It was taking time to settle in—what all of it meant.

Tim shifted his gaze upward to meet with dull eyes, an ember of pity burning somewhere behind the man's seemingly-empty expression. There was a conversation in the connection, one they never needed to say aloud.

 _"You're all I have now…"_

 _"I know, child."_

And that was how it became the two of them, an orphan and an assassin—and a court of owls watching from above.

But as we all know, life is a game of give and take, and as much as Tim had lost his father, little did he know that somewhere else, another boy was gaining one…


	5. Thirty-Two

**Chapter Five: Thirty-Two**

"Eat it, Bruce!" Jason slammed the car door closed with a victorious grin. Bruce didn't respond, gliding over to his seat in front of dozens of computer monitors with a strained patience that said his partner had been like this for a while.

They both looked worse for wear, a few claw marks littering their costumes—though none deep enough to really cause much injury. Bruce silently thanked himself for that as Alfred appeared with a tray, looking as blasé as usual. Patching up uniforms was something the Englishman favored to patching up people, and Bruce knew he'd saved himself a healthy dose of sarcasm by not getting wounded.

Well, not wounded _physically_ , anyway.

"Why all the excitement tonight, Master Jason?" the older man inquired flatly, lowering the tray so Bruce could take a mug.

Jason looked two steps away from having a parade called in his honor as he marched toward the lockers, swinging his cape like a color guard flag. "Tell him, Bruce!"

The addressed man shook his head with a sigh. He wasn't sure if the small smile on his own face was out of amusement or pain. _Both_ , he decided and told himself to just enjoy the "I got'cha!" grin his partner was sporting, the way his blue eyes lit up like he'd won the lottery.

Bruce was in too good a mood to be upset with him. Not tonight.

The teenager didn't give his mentor much time to explain before bursting, "Selina Kyle totally hit on me, Alfred! It was awesome! And the look on Bruce's face—" He cocked his head back to the cave ceiling as if the very thought was rocketing him up to heaven. "Priceless! You should'a seen it!"

"Ahh," the butler droned from beside Bruce, using the tone he reserved solely for Jason. He spared his master a look as if to add, "Teenagers."

Bruce accepted the sympathy before blowing the steam off his mug. He felt certain he'd gained some white hairs in the past hour, but it hadn't kept him from pulling back his cowl as he considered his response. "Remember, Jason. Catwoman is still a criminal. It's a bad idea getting involved with her."

"Ha!" the teenager declared sarcastically. He took a seat just within Bruce's vision, tossing his cape on the locker's bench with a dramatic flourish. "Maybe you should take your own advice, _Bruce_."

"You don't know what you're talking about." The man was careful not to phrase it as a question, trying to signal that his charge should let the subject drop. But with Jason, Bruce had learned, nothing was ever finished, no topic left untouched, until Jason said so.

"Oh, please," the boy groaned. "I know _everything_. Your frilly acrobat told me all about you two!"

"You shouldn't talk about your brother like that," Bruce chided gently, taking a sip from the mug in his hands. The remark had little weight to it, but it was what he was counting on to seg-way into a different topic entirely.

Jason snorted, pulling off his mud-caked boots with a jolt that almost knocked him off the bench. "As _if_ that guy could be my brother." He let the footwear fall to the floor with a satisfying thud. "He wishes!"

"He could be." It'd come out faster than Bruce had meant it to.

The man could practically hear Jason as he bristled from the other side of the cave. He'd always lent more toward temperamental, especially when the honor of his parents was seemingly under attack, so the vitriol of his reply should've been expected. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm just saying—" Bruce paused to take another drink, suddenly wishing it was filled with something stronger than coffee. "—Dick could be your brother. If you wanted him to."

It'd been a conversation he'd been meaning to have for a long time, ever since Jason had become more to him than just a kid who'd tried to steal his tires in Crime Alley. But now that he was looking at the nonplussed face of the teenager he'd fought beside for nearly a year, the decision had a gravity about it that was hitting him full force, a decision he'd been staring down every day since he'd had the paperwork drawn up.

All he had to do was ask.

"Bruce." Jason looked a little pale, a little confused. It was a good thing he was already sitting down. "Wh—what's _that_ supposed to mean?" Repeating the last question he'd uttered seemed the best he could do from where he was gripping the edges of the bench like a lifeline.

There was a long pause as he and Bruce watched each other, both struggling with their words.

Alfred re-announced his presence with a cough as if to tell Bruce not to chicken out this time, setting the drink intended for Jason on the computer table before excusing himself. Bruce really wished the man had stayed, had taken over. But it was just him now, his old friend disappearing up the cave's stairs and leaving them alone.

Bruce took a steadying breath before attempting to speak. "Jason." The name suddenly felt like a word he didn't completely understand—like he was making a decision that could only end in it blowing up in his face. He suppressed the feeling before pushing onward.

"Dick was Robin before you," he began sensibly. It seemed a good building block to start from. "He was my ward. We were bound legally as parent and child. For a time, anyway, but that's beside the point. The point is that now _you're_ Robin. And, well…I've been thinking that, _as Robin_ , you—"

"Bruce."

The man hadn't even realized Jason had risen to his feet, an impatience glistening in his glassy eyes. "If you're going to ask, then do it right." His voice was thick with emotion, a rawness that was almost unnatural to him. "Don't ask Robin. Ask _me_."

Bruce took a moment to wipe the unease from his face, not looking away from the person in front of him, willing for him to understand that what he was saying was genuine. "You've been here a long time, Jason." The storm in the boy's eyes calmed a fraction. It encouraged Bruce to continue. "But more than that, you've been a member of this family for a long time. I wanted to ask if you'd like—if you'd _want_ —to make it official."

Once the words were out, it seemed all the hours of stress had been pointless; three simple sentences had caused him so much grief. Bruce's only regret was that now all those hours of stress were on Jason's shoulders.

The teenager seemed at a loss of what to do, looking terribly underprepared for the development that Bruce was beginning to fear he might decline. That is, until the boy had crossed the room and, after standing there for a telling moment, hesitantly slipped his arms around Bruce's chest and buried his face in his shoulder.

In that minute, Bruce was hyper-aware of how quiet the cave was, a few bats fluttering in the stalactites above, water drops sounding somewhere far away. It was suspiciously peaceful—the kind that couldn't last forever.

"Can I…" Jason stirred, face hidden in the folds of Bruce's cape. "Can I still keep my mom's name?"

Bruce was well-aware how much Jason's surname meant to him, the boy always declaring it like he descended from royalty instead of the streets. It had a ring to it—as if replacing it with a name as wealthy as "Wayne" would be a crime.

Bruce nodded against the top of the teenager's head. "Whatever you want."

"…okay."

Jason swiped at the spots underneath his eyes before pulling away, his face noticeably red. It looked like the happenings of the past five minutes were having trouble setting in.

"Really?" Bruce leaned forward a bit in his chair, raising an eyebrow with a serious expression. He didn't want to force him into anything if he wasn't sure. "There's no rush, Jason. You can think it over some."

The teenager shook his head faintly. "I don't need time. I know what I want."

Bruce couldn't help smiling at that. "Alright."

But then all conversation stalled, leaving Bruce wishing he were better at these kinds of things. Luckily, Jason was quick to provide an out, "So…what did the computer dig up on Two-Face while we were gone?"

"Not much." Bruce hoped the relief in his voice wasn't too obvious. "There was camera footage catching him at an East Side plant a few weeks ago—although that's not enough to get a conviction. However, based on the residue we found yesterday, I think it's safe to say he's trying to expand into the biochemical industry."

"You mean our nickel-flipping gangster's been taking chem classes?" Jason pretended to wipe away a tear. "I'm so proud."

"Quarters."

Jason stopped short of sipping from the mug Alfred had left for him. "What?"

"He flips quarters, Jason."

The teenager set down the coffee with a dubious look. "Are you seriously nit-picking this?"

"I can prove it to you if you'd like."

"You _are_ serious," Jason groaned with an air of teasing melodrama. "I thought we had a bonding moment! Shouldn't things be different now?"

"Not on your life," Bruce voiced through a smile. Jason dealt him a playful punch to the shoulder, a laugh bubbling out of the teenager that filled the whole cave.

It was a sound Bruce was convinced he could never get tired of.


	6. Eleven, Thirty-Three (I)

_AN: This story was originally supposed to be six chapters. *puts main-course angst in oven* So much for my infallible outline, I guess._ _v-(:/)-v_

 _Edit: I added a bit to the last scene in this chapter. Thanks to weljan12350 for bringing the inconsistencies to my attention!_

* * *

 **Chapter Six: Eleven, Thirty-Three (I)**

 _Ta-tink!_

One half of a staff went flying into the distance before tumbling to a stop on the loft's floor.

"I'll get it next time, I swear!"

A cluster of black eyes glinted from above, the whole family of owls having made a day of watching Tim chase after parts of his staff over and over again. The biggest bent forward and flapped its wings before hunkering back down to observe.

"Yeah, yeah, don't get too comfy up there," Tim huffed as he swooped down to pick up his weapon. "I've almost got it. Just…gotta work on the angles a bit." Ignoring the stares, Tim repositioned himself in front of the training dummy, holding one half of the collapsible staff in front of him.

The floor. The torso. And back to him. Two angles. That was it.

He sucked in a hopeful breath, eyes trained on the weapon in front of him, and let it loose. It felt right as soon as it left his hand, bouncing from the floor paneling to the chest of the figure in front of him before heading straight back—just like he wanted.

The achievement caught Tim by such surprise that he forgot an important part of his trick: He had to catch it.

A blunt jab in the center of his sternum knocked the wind out of him and almost knocked him over altogether. He buckled over with an "oof!" and eased himself down onto the floor, massaging the spot while a din of shrieks rained down from above.

"It's not that funny…" Tim growled, shooting a glare up to the rafters.

He'd been practicing with the staff for years now (And he was pretty good, he had to admit.), but when the thought occurred to him that he could pull off a stunt by using other surfaces, it'd become somewhat of an obsession that distracted him from what'd happened to his...

Well, from what'd happened last February.

So, he practiced and practiced, and ten months of that practice had yielded hours of tossing and catching and being hit in the face with the collapsible staff until finally Tim decided he was good enough to try to add another angle to it. In theory, the first one against the floor or ceiling would be enough to distract someone until they were hit with the second angle that'd send it back to Tim, and if he practiced enough, he'd be able to use both halves and add more angles to the technique until he got bored with it and moved on to something else.

Tim understood that he'd likely never use the maneuver, but the mathematician in him appreciated the complexity of it, and if nothing else, it was a good distraction from everything that'd gone on. And that was what Tim had wanted: a distraction.

He padded over to retrieve the staff, his chest still smarting, when he glanced outside. The familiar window of a flat across the street greeted him—always empty, and he noticed the morning sunshine playing off the glass in an array of light lavenders and peachy oranges.

 _Talon's not back yet…_ He'd never been that late before.

Only when he looked back on it years later did Tim realize that moment should have been his first clue that something was wrong. But instead, the boy had simply placed himself back in front of the dummy and tried again, trusting that the man would return eventually.

And Talon did return.

The man entered in his usual fashion, and Tim, who had long since put a pause on his training, stopped ticking away the seconds on the tabletop to take in the new arrival.

Talon didn't look at him, meandering toward the ever-present mannequin in a way that should have been Tim's second clue. But Talon had had that tired gait before, slow and thoughtful like the man had something he would never voice on his mind. Tim assumed it was a day in which there wouldn't be much spoken and continued to watch with dim interest.

But then, the man slipped the mask off his face, still not looking at Tim, and it was by that third clue that Tim realized something had changed that night, a change so monumental that he swore his own heart stopped.

He'd never seen that look before, one charged with such emotion that the man's deadened irises almost flickered back to life. Talon was scrutinizing the mask in his hands with wide eyes like he was contemplating what had ever made him put it on in the first place—as if it was suddenly new and evil despite the years of him wearing it.

Talon continued to stare at the mask while Tim continued to stare at Talon, and neither one of them spoke. Until suddenly, somewhere in those eyes that emotion solidified into something resembling a staunch determination. It must have driven the man to slip the mask back on, because before Tim could process everything about that moment and what it meant, the man was gone again, vanishing out the window without having given him so much as a glance.

There must have been an hour of time that passed in the two seconds it took for Tim's heart to restart, for his brain to process what feeling had been emanating from the man.

But there was no mistaking it.

For the longest time, Tim had wanted to know what emotion looked like on Talon's face. "Joy" or "sadness" or maybe even "anger." But never that.

Never "fear."

* * *

"Gotham's beautiful tonight, isn't it?"

Jason looked up from his spot on the roof, legs dangling off the edge. He snorted at the comment. "The air quality's at 140 tonight, Batman. You can't even _see_ Gotham!"

The teenager had a point: There was a thin layer of fog splayed over the buildings, punctuated by the occasional skyscraper with its windows glowing in the night. But that didn't matter to Bruce.

"You say that all the time, too," Jason continued, raising an eyebrow. "Even Nightwing says you tell him that, and he doesn't get it either."

Bruce let out a short grunt, unfazed, and raised a hand to indicate something was on the police scanners. Jason let his point go with a disappointed huff.

"Someone's broken into the science museum," the man relayed to his partner once it was finished, the pair already on their feet and making to leave. "They just opened a new Aves exhibit there last week."

"You mean birds?" Jason amended, his mouth twisted to the side with bored sarcasm. He fired a line and jumped off.

Bruce was right on his heels. "One in the same."

The teenager groaned, half-pleading for his partner to say no as he fought to be heard over the wind, "You don't think it's Penguin again, do you?"

"No idea. Could be." Bruce could already imagine his son rolling his eyes from behind his mask.

"Can we please have _one_ bird exhibit in Gotham without that kook robbing it? Is that too much to ask?"

 _Here we go again_. Bruce shook his head with a half-smile.

"Honestly, I go by Robin, but you don't see me making off with every Midwestern bird that comes to port. What a supervillain niche to be a part of…!"

Jason was still laying into the beaked-nosed man by the time they alighted on the museum roof. ("I get it. He likes penguins. But this is ridiculous!") However, as soon as Bruce landed, he was hit with the sense that there was more there than met the eye.

"Keep behind me, Robin."

Jason sobered up at the seriousness in his partner's tone, the way he already had a batarang slipped into his hand. He knew that look well enough to slide lower to the ground, waiting with alert eyes.

After a careful moment of pause, they shifted over to the skylight, Bruce moving to turn on his infrared sensors as the pair surveyed the ominous darkness below. There were no patches of red glowing on the inside, a thought that would have made Bruce relax were it not for the strange feeling settling in his bones.

He gave a short nod to Jason, who returned the motion, before slipping through. The automatic lights turned on the instant their feet hit the white floors, dozens of glossy birds' eyes observing them from their spots on fake branches and in glass cases.

It didn't take long to notice that some of the round eyes were wrong, figures lining the juts in the wall where flickers of orange lenses and metal were quick to descend upon them.

"Robin!" Bruce barked, the batarang in his hand instantly locked with a dagger. He was vaguely aware that Jason was holding his own behind him.

Twenty to two made for a crazy tumble, Bruce knew it, and it didn't take long for another person to realize that they were horribly disadvantaged.

"There are too many of them!" Jason hollered over the sound of a snapping collarbone—thankfully not his partner's, Bruce noted—but the fact the teenager was even admitting they were out of their depth spoke volumes. "Where the heck did they come from!?"

Bruce leaped back from where he'd been entangled with a cluster of masked figures, talons gracing each deadly finger. A quick kick to the gut sent one of them flying into a free-standing case, the glass splintering. But as much as there was supposedly an alarm set off, it wasn't ringing, and it didn't start then either.

 _They triggered the alarm just to shut it off?_

The man made a point to reconvene with his partner, and the two were soon back-to-back.

"This was a trap!" Bruce twisted one of the opponent's arms and whirled it into another. The figures never made a sound, never tried any banter. _Professional. Or maybe something else…_

"I gathered this was a trap, thanks!" Jason snapped as he hurled a wave of R-shaped disks. "But what do we do about it?"

Bruce grunted in a way he was sure Jason understood: _I'm still working on that bit._

Another cracking bone rang out behind Bruce, making his head whip to the side with the intent to tell Jason to be less violent, but he stopped short when he saw bone meld back into bone like it'd never even been broken.

"Um, Bats?" The teenager dodged a knife. "Are you seeing this?"

"Yeah." Bruce barely turned back in time to catch another mercenary an inch away from landing a scratch on his face, sidestepping just enough to allow the being's momentum to carry it into a headlock he had waiting. The vigilante held the contact for only a second, but that was all he needed.

 _No heartbeat. Cold._

So his infrared sensors hadn't been on the fritz.

Bruce tossed the enemy and jumped back to Jason, retrieving a handful of pellets from his belt.

"Robin! Cover!"

The man was glad they'd drilled the command so much, Jason and himself instantly cloaked in their capes while he tossed the pellets and the room burst into flames. There was an inhuman gurgling echoing somewhere in the fire like boiling water, and what had appeared at first to be flesh melted into something else.

By the time the heat had subsided enough for Bruce to let his cape fall, Jason was staring at him with a horrified look. "Batman, you just—!" The boy's head turned to imply the rest of his accusation, but instead, his horror was replaced with confused understanding, his vision finally meeting with pools of olive liquid where twenty soldiers had once stood. The slime continued to bubble from the heat, emitting the smell of rotten corpses that'd been dead for decades instead of seconds.

"What did...?" Jason took a step closer for a better look before turning back to Bruce.

"They weren't alive, Robin."

Jason was rarely unnerved by anything, but that observation made his face freeze for a second. "Like zombies or…?" He returned his gaze to the oozing puddles. Bruce could tell he didn't want an explanation, and Bruce didn't really have one to give.

"Someone was testing us."

Jason's head snapped up. "You serious? I'm pretty sure they were all trying to kill us."

"No," Bruce retrieved a vial from his belt and took a sample of the coagulated remains. He scrutinized the liquid for a long time. "Someone was watching us, Robin." It'd been a snapshot in his mind from somewhere in the midst of the brawl, the glow of lenses from above the skylight and a man that moved too naturally to be one of the figures he and Jason had just fought.

Bruce spared a hopeless glance up to the ceiling, already knowing deep down that their audience had long since vanished.

Jason's face morphed into one of faded alarm as he came beside his partner, following his eyes. "But why would someone be testing us? Why not just kill us and get it over with?" Jason's concern deepened when Bruce stooped down to pick up an owl feather that had been loosed from one of the models. The man twirled it between his fingertips, observing the light as it danced along its knife-like edge.

"I don't know, Robin…"


	7. Eleven, Thirty-Three (II)

**Chapter Seven: Eleven, Thirty-Three (II)**

Jason yawned with a stretch. The teenager had wandered down to the cave the next morning only to find that someone else had apparently never left.

"Did you even go to bed, Bruce?"

The man answered with a noncommittal grunt before taking a swig of coffee.

He was pretty sure Jason was shooting him a judgmental look as if to tell him Alfred wouldn't like to hear Bruce had pulled an all-nighter…again. But thankfully, the teenager simply sighed, "Did you find anything good on our zombie guys at least?"

Bruce grunted once more. An affirmative. He was busy muddling through all of the text on the screen.

"Well, aren't we chatty this morning?" Jason quipped with a knowing smirk, leaning against the computer table with his arms folded. The teenager glanced up at the monitors to see what all his partner was reading. "Didn't know you were such a fan of fairytales."

"It's not a fairytale, Jason. It's a nursery rhyme." Bruce broke his eyes away from the screen to look at his son, the glow of the monitors still catching on both their faces. "Those people from the museum reminded me of something my parents told me often as a child."

Jason's smirk widened teasingly. "And yet you never tell it to me?"

"Be serious, Jason." (Bruce knew full-well his son would deck him if he ever tried.)

"Alright, alright," the teenager snickered, leaning closer for a better look. "But at least read it to me once so I know what's going on."

Bruce nodded. "It's pretty short, but I think it might be a clue." The duo turned their complete attention to the computerized copy of a book excerpt, Bruce beginning to read aloud,

 _"Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time,_

 _"Ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch, behind granite and lime—"_

("Who do they think they are? The Riddler?")

("Jason, please…")

 _"They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed,_

 _"Speak not a whispered word about them, or they'll send the Talon for your head."_

Jason settled back with a contemplative expression, apparently weighing if he should make another wise-crack or save his mentor some sanity. Luckily for Bruce, Jason picked the latter, shooting his partner a thoughtful look. "If this is true, then those people would be…Talons, was it?"

"Something like that," Bruce mumbled, paging through the text. "It's based on a rumor that there's been a secret society ruling Gotham for centuries, some kind of conspiratorial cult."

"Can't be _that_ secret if every parent in Gotham's reciting this for their kids."

"The Court of Owls could only be fantasy—something to give children a scare. But last night…I never considered that it might be real…" Bruce leaned back in his chair pensively. "How to know for sure, though…?"

"Sounds like you've got a simple problem, Bruce."

The man looked at his charge with an air of muted surprise.

"Yeah, just look at the last lines of the rhyme." Jason pointed to the final row of words, physically telling Bruce to revisit them. "All we have to do is whisper some words about this 'Court of Owls,' and we'll have Talons coming out our ears before we know it. Simple stuff."

 _Nice try, Jason. But I doubt it's that easy._

"Okay." Jason grinned, stretching out the "y" in a way that said he could interpret the expression on Bruce's face. "Maybe that won't work, but you're still overthinking things, Bruce. I don't know if we can prove this Court is real or not—That's more your department than mine. But you think one of them was testing us last night, right? So, all we have to do is wait, and eventually, they'll take the initiative. After all, what'd be the point in testing us if we never saw heads or tails of them again?"

Bruce perked at the observation, turning to Jason with a skeptical look. Naturally, the thought had already occurred to the man, but hearing it come from Jason…?

"What?" came the scandalized reply.

"You're learning."

Jason scowled, re-crossing his arms. " _No_ , I've always been good at this kind of thing. It's just becoming more obvious since you're getting senile in your old age."

"I'm hardly in my thirties, Jason."

The teenager cleaned his ears with a finger. "Yeah, that's old, Bruce."

"Don't you have school today?"

His partner went bug-eyed for a hot second while Bruce eyed him stoically. "Crap, you're right!" Jason launched himself off the desk and darted up the cave steps two at a time. "Don't tell Alfred!" he bellowed over his shoulder, and the clock-entrance slid closed behind him.

Bruce watched the scene, faintly amused, before tilting his head back, making to rub the sleep from his eyes. Some of the remains he'd uncovered at the museum were whirring away in a centrifuge. The lights from his computer screamed for his attention. But all Bruce could think about was his son as his lips turned up in a small smile.

 _What am I going to do with that kid…?_

The centrifuge timer beeped, forcing Bruce to set aside the nostalgia for a moment as he pushed himself up from his chair.

There was work to do, after all.

* * *

It'd been two days since Talon had run off that strange night, not returning until almost forty hours later, forty hours of time that Tim was stuck ruminating over their one-minute of silence.

A part of Tim had been upset that the man had just up and left him like that; he'd broken the unwritten code of their relationship, because while Tim had stayed, Talon hadn't returned.

But that feeling had gradually melted into another one entirely.

 _What if he's not coming back? What if he's…?_

There was no way Talon had died. Years and years of assignments had hardly left a scratch on the man, and Tim had criticized himself for even thinking it, told himself to just wait and be patient and that, afterward, life would go back to normal.

Morning had turned into night. Night had turned back to morning. And it wasn't until the sun set once more that Talon had reappeared.

But life hadn't gone back to normal—not by a long shot.

Tim blinked down at the neatly-folded uniform that'd been dumped in his lap.

He'd seen the clothing hundreds of times before. Every time he looked at Talon in fact. And now, a copy was sitting beneath him, complete with ten gold claws and two orange eyes and one sinking feeling settling in his gut.

The lenses glowed with a sentience of their own, and for a terrifying moment, Tim almost mistook a flicker of shadow for it blinking, watching him. He brought his gaze back up to Talon, his confusion obvious, and managed to croak out the one word on his mind.

"What?"

"I need you to come with me," Talon repeated. He turned to his wall of weaponry nonchalantly and proceeded to toss the collapsible staff in his direction. "This is all you'll need."

Tim, who had since staggered to his feet, caught the staff more on instinct than anything else, still fixing Talon with the same shocked stare. "But I don't…"

"You don't need to understand," Talon said, almost snapped. "Do as I tell you."

"…why?" Tim took a tentative step forward. "What's going on?"

Talon ignored the questions, busy considering two different blades in his hands as if cursing himself that he hadn't sharpened them more.

"Talon," Tim pressed, holding his staff tighter. "What happened?"

"I've already told you!" he barked sharply (The suddenness of it made Tim flinch.) and swiveled his head to look the boy dead in the eye. "You don't need to—"

It must have been that moment that Talon saw the subtle fear streaking across Tim's face, because instantly, his usually-expressionless face fell back to its natural countenance. The man snapped his eyes closed, seemingly gathering himself, before trying again.

Somewhere above, one of the owls screeched.

"…child."

When Talon looked at him next, the man's eyes still held on to something that Tim couldn't place, but his face was customarily apathetic, voice calm. He took a small step forward and, when Tim didn't step back, took another and another until the two were standing toe to toe.

If Tim ever thought the man had a dead way about him, it was then: as Talon took the ever-familiar mask on the pile meant for Tim into his hands.

"I need you to do something for me," he spoke, looking down at the boy in front of him. There was a softness there, an inkling of regret. Talon rubbed a thumb over the fabric, omniscient lenses flashing. "I need you to not ask why."

It wasn't cutting, just a plain statement—so vague that Tim was wondering exactly what he was referencing. Perhaps it was something Talon had done. Or perhaps it was something he was going to do.

Tim blinked up at him, still struggling to grasp everything that was going on: the way Talon had changed, the way he feared everything was twisting into something new and terrifying, and the way he'd probably be the only person that stayed the same in a world that was always moving.

It took everything Tim had to answer. "Okay…"

Talon's façade slipped a bit. Within those sparse seconds, it seemed he'd weathered decades of gripping a mask that he now pressed into the hands of a young child.

"Thank you."

The man let his hand linger there a moment, green eyes searching the boy's face like they were trying to freeze the image for as long as possible—like as soon as orange glass fell over blue irises, Tim would disappear from his life. Tim was just beginning to grasp the solemnity of the man's gaze before it was gone, replaced with a look of intense resolve.

The hand drifted away.

"We don't have much time." Talon secured the pair of swords along his back and moved toward the window. He yanked it up, the plastic grating against wood a scream in the grave silence.

The man looked both ways before clambering out. There was a paranoia about the motion that strangled the breath in Tim's chest, infected him too, but in spite of it, Tim moved to comply, changing into the uniform while Talon kept watch outside.

But something else was observing Tim, two lenses staring back from his hands with a sense of foreboding that made Tim flip the mask over abruptly before moving to put it on. It took a moment to get used to the sickening hazel that coated everything that'd once had its own color, to the feeling of having a layer of glass between him and the rest of the world.

"Where are we going?" Tim asked hesitantly once he'd shut the window behind him. He couldn't see Talon's expression through the mask the man had since put on, but Talon leaped to the roof with a calming indifference about him that made Tim relax a bit.

"I need to meet with someone," he explained briefly, waiting for Tim to join him up above. He didn't offer anything more than that, and Tim decided against pushing the topic. Instead, he fell into a pattern of following Talon from behind, reminding himself that the only weapon Talon had given him was his staff—a _blunt_ weapon. Tim held on to that knowledge along with a conversation he'd shared with the man in front of him two years earlier.

 _"_ That _is why I cannot permit you to come with me."_

Talon knew what killing could do, and as much as Tim wore the same armor as him right then, the boy also had a nebulous understanding that Talon would never let him _become_ him. It was one of the few reasons that allowed Tim to agree to this all so easily.

And the other reason…

Tim glanced at the person in front of him as they rounded a corner. Talon's footsteps made no noise as usual, but the steps…they were _different_ , the backs of his feet never touching the ground as if the man was waiting to break into a run at a moment's notice, to pounce. Maybe even to protect.

Tim's attention sharpened on that small detail, continuing to follow while a million questions danced in his eyes.

But suddenly a million turned into billions when they finally found who Talon had been looking for.

"Batman and Robin?" Tim hissed, gawking at the two people who were perched on a rooftop a few buildings away. Gotham's sworn protectors. His childhood idols.

It took an unnatural effort for Tim to rip his sight away from the pair to settle on the assassin—the _assassin_ —next to him.

 _Are you crazy!?_

Talon didn't speak for an eternity-worth of seconds, focused on the duo while enshrouded in some hazy emotion that Tim couldn't decipher. "I need you to distract the smaller one—"

" _Me_!? Distract _Robin_!?"

There was no way Talon couldn't sense the alarm in the boy's voice, but he replied flatly, "Yes. I need Batman alone."

Tim was a second away from blurting out "why" when he remembered his promise and caught himself. He rubbed at a groove in his staff instead, trying to ease his nerves.

"Talon, you're not going to…?"

 _He's an assassin._

Tim had always known, but it was never more apparent to him than right then.

Talon gave off some kind of self-condemning silence, making the nausea in Tim's stomach spike.

Batman and Robin continued to stand a ways away, admiring the bridge that connected to Blackgate Isle, towering over the sweeping Atlantic. There was something almost godlike about the way the Financial District limned them in shadow.

It only served to make Tim feel sicker as he stared at Talon through the eyes of his mask, praying that the man would say something—anything—to explain it all.

"…Timothy."

Tim felt like he'd been punched in the gut.

"Trust me" was all Talon added to the title, so somber and sad that Tim wasn't sure how to interpret it. It was the first time the man had ever said his name. And Tim didn't realize it then, but it would be the last time he'd hear his name spoken—not until four years after the events of that night.

"I trust you," Tim eventually admitted, a hint of reservation still present.

 _Just tell me this isn't what I think this is…_


	8. Eleven, Thirty-Three (III)

_AN: I'm getting my wisdom teeth pulled today, so don't be alarmed when I don't update for a while._ _In the meantime… owp_

* * *

 **Chapter Eight: Eleven, Thirty-Three (III)**

Blackgate was reduced to nothing more than an obscure figure on the horizon, lost in the juxtaposition of bright car lights on the bridge and the inky sky. The roar of the ocean continued its assault against the rocky shores, drowning out all sounds as if Bruce and Jason were sitting at the base of a waterfall instead of a rooftop in southern Gotham.

They'd just finished catching the last of Blackgate's escaped prisoners, a horde of them having managed to break out the week before, and there was that distinct calm that always followed the conclusion of a drawn-out mission, the feeling hovering somewhere in the broad expanse of sky. Something about it told Bruce that he should allow Jason and himself to relax in that silence for a few minutes longer before heading back out.

But peaceful things never last, and it was true for that night as well.

"Told you so!" Jason exclaimed cockily, grinning at Bruce as if asking for him to fork over the five dollars neither had ever bet. It was an odd response considering two mercenaries had just appeared on the roof ten feet behind them, their masks' eyes glowing.

But then again, it did make for an odd sight: a grown man standing there, a dark confidence about him, while a child who hardly came up to his waist looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, sliding behind the taller one a fraction that Bruce noticed instantly.

 _Nervous. An amateur._

And the other one?

 _Experienced. Dangerous._ There was something else there too, though—caught somewhere between the tense shoulders and knives already dancing in the man's hands.

Bruce's mind supplied only one phrase: _On edge._

But the vigilante didn't have much time to mull that over or plan for anything more than to hold his own as the taller of the two hurled the layer of knives in his direction, tackling him from the roof before he could regain his footing.

It happened so fast that everyone—including the Talon's young partner—seemed shocked by it.

But the rooftop had since flown upwards, Bruce distantly aware of Jason shouting after him ("Batman!") as the pavement rushed up to meet him. He managed to break away and roll to a stand before the pressure of the abrupt fight was back on, dodging a sword that had gotten dangerously close. The edge of the blade sliced a fraction of his mask along his ear, wires crackling and sizzling in a way the vigilante didn't like.

He knew that was where his visionary equipment was stored.

But he also knew the mercenary couldn't keep up the ridiculous—almost skittish—pace forever, and Bruce simply held his own, waiting for it to start taking a toll on his opponent.

Until that happened, Bruce did what he did best: He planned.

Not two minutes later, that planning had led them to one of the main cables of Blackgate Bridge. On one side, cars streaked below with blaring strips of yellow and red lights accompanying them. And on the other, the Atlantic continued to churn and broil, lapping at the piers and supports with an eagerness that Bruce disliked but was counting on.

Although he had a sneaking feeling crawling up his spine, Bruce acknowledged that this person was someone with the worst kind of motives: the kind he didn't yet understand; it only served to make the man more dangerous. But if things went south, the water below would make for a good escape, so unpredictable that he doubted the mercenary would be able to find him until Bruce would be in the ship he had waiting just beneath the ocean's surface.

Either that, or the water would keep the assassin from jumping, its ferocity too dangerous a force to test, and the night could be concluded with the cuffs he had stored in his belt and a brief call to Gordon.

Those were the two ways this could go, and with the deck already stacked in his favor, the only thing keeping Bruce there was an interest in what the man wanted.

"The Court of Owls?" he posed flatly, sweeping a leg underneath his opponent. The assassin took the bait and jumped, but he kept careful control of the swords in his hands, making it impossible to get a hold on him without getting injured.

 _He's good._

Bruce didn't want to try his luck and allowed the assassin to reclaim a spot on the cable, the mercenary ignoring the question in a way that made Bruce believe his guess had been correct. Either way, the continuous flurry of knives told him the man wasn't in the mood for talking, a hastiness about them that made Bruce feel uneasy.

It was like the Talon was trying to figure him out as quickly as possible, working against the clock in some kind of panic that made Bruce more confident that he'd already won—but also more sure that there was more there than met the eye.

He didn't like it.

He didn't like it at all.

"You're the one from the museum," Bruce offered during another lull in their fight.

His assumption that the Talon had pressed his advantage too much too fast had been correct, and the two minutes of constant motion left Bruce in slightly better shape than the mercenary across from him.

"Yes," the man spoke for the first time, the breathy delivery clashing with the metallic echo of his voice.

Bruce blocked a throwing knife, sending it spinning over the bridge and into the watery abyss below. "Why are you testing us?"

He was surprised the assassin answered.

"Because—" The Talon was in front of him now, matching him blow for blow. "I need to know if you're as good as they say!"

Bruce flinched for only a split second, the response ringing with an earnestness that caught him off guard, but it was enough to give his opponent an edge.

A blunt pain exploded in his shin, and Bruce slipped back off the bridge's main cable to buy himself time to recover. He shot his grapnel at the last minute, the line circling the cable a few times before going taught and directing him to the ground just off the busy expressway.

The assassin practically teleported inches away, and the pair found blade locked in blade, pressing for control. Bruce knew he was at a disadvantage, his left calf burning from the pressure, but he had a smoke bomb prepared in his free hand just in case, placing the fist on the back of his blade hand for support.

He didn't have to win, he reminded himself, aware that his back was pressed against the guardrail, the only thing that kept him from the ocean below. He had a way out if things turned unsavory—either for him or for Jason.

But there was nothing on the com indicating his partner had run into trouble, so Bruce continued to stare over the two locked weapons, curious to learn anything more about this Court and what they might have planned.

"Why are they doing this? What are they after?"

The Talon hovered in front of him, lenses glinting in an animalistic fashion while the mercenary shifted his own blade. It was so sudden a motion that the two spun around to keep balanced, the assassin now pressed against the guardrail like perhaps he knew that was Bruce's best exit.

 _Intelligent._

Or like he was trying to keep him there, willing for him to listen.

 _Desperate._

The lenses flashed once more, the ocean roaring and overwhelming everything except the next words that were spoken.

"I am not doing this for The Court," the assassin hissed, leaning into the locked blades with a wave of paranoia. "I am doing this because I need your help!"

* * *

Talon's aggressiveness was something Tim hadn't counted on, shocked and partially mortified at the speed with which both men moved. But then they were gone, vanishing off the ledge of the roof in the blink of an eye.

"Batman!"

The title shoved Tim back into reality, realizing that Robin was about to dive off the building to support his partner.

Talon had asked him to do one thing, and as much as Tim didn't know what was going on, he trusted the man. _At least, I think I do…_

Regardless, the thing Talon had asked him to do was simple: Distract.

He'd never said how, though.

 _Distract_ , Tim repeated desperately, hoping the word would keep the impression of a yellow cape in place. But that hope only served to make it more obvious that he was way out of his element, only a staff to help him. _I need a distraction._

The sentence made the weapon in his hands gain some kind of heft, and as if his body were moving on its own, Tim split the staff in two before really comprehending it. _Two angles._

Somewhere in between recognizing that his partner was gone and that he should help him, Robin's attention tilted to look at Tim—and the blurred line the boy had seemingly tossed straight at the ground.

"What the—"

 _Thwack!_

Tim was grateful that, this time, some part of him remembered to finish his technique by catching the weapon, because the rest of him was definitely too shocked to think of it.

Five seconds later, the whole situation was still taking time to sink in, and it left both Robin and Tim gawking at each other, one of them cradling his forehead with a stunned expression while the other was subtly thrilled that his staff had hit a face other than his own for once.

Then, it started to occur to Tim that he'd just gotten lucky on adrenaline and probably shouldn't try the maneuver again, back to fighting someone who was now considerably more on guard.

But Tim didn't want to fight, just buy time, and now that he had the vigilante's attention, he hoped it'd stay that way.

Or maybe he didn't.

The way Robin drew himself to a full stand made it seem like he was lording his height over him, and as much as Tim understood killing was off the table when it came to Batman and Robin's rules, he couldn't help imagining that that was exactly how this was going to go.

By the way the next minute went, Robin might as well have.

It didn't take long for their difference in skill level to become noticeable, Tim barely hanging on and well-aware that, without his staff to increase his range, he'd be toast. But that fact was also plain as day to someone else, who'd gradually grown amused once it'd been asserted that the eleven-year-old wasn't much of a threat.

"Maybe we should get you training wheels for this," Robin smirked as he blocked the staff with an arm. He wasn't really trying, Tim knew it, but Tim wasn't trying to win, and so he told himself that point didn't matter.

But on some level, it did matter: Years of practice without field experience didn't amount to much, but Tim had been hopeful that his nerves would've held up better.

Then again, this was Robin, the Boy Wonder. Someone Tim had never even dreamed he'd have the chance to meet, let alone spar with—and someone he'd never thought he would be frustrated with as everything he tried seemed to be tossed aside by the teenager's fighting style. It was so different from Talon's, the only person Tim had ever practiced with. Talon's style was smooth and fluid, unpredictable in a beautiful way: an art that'd been honed for years.

But this.

This was unpredictable in its own right simply because it was so crude. The stance, the movements. They were all street-based and wild, galvanized by an energy and fierceness that said this person had been holding his own since long before he'd ever put on a cape.

"You know, I don't get to play with other kids very often," the teenager droned, talking more to himself than to Tim as he stepped around the staff with ease. "We could have sleepovers and play Monopoly. Yeah! I'll even let you play as the car!" Robin ducked under the weapon, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "I've always liked being the boot, anyway. You know why that is, kid?"

Tim was unready for the foot that landed on his chest, sending him toppling to the ground.

"It's perfect for kicking butt." A cocky smile. "Don't you agree?"

Tim stared up at the grin, wanting nothing more than to smack it off. The teenager was standing there like he'd just dealt out the best quip known to man. ( _It's not even funny,_ Tim smoldered with a hint of venom.) But Robin had made one mistake: He'd let his guard down.

A swift kick was all it took to knock the teenager's feet out from underneath him, allowing Tim to roll to a stand and try to catch his breath.

"Okay, okay! I'm sorry!" Robin laughed as he recovered from the hit. "I forgot that you've gotta be at least eight to understand Monopoly. Maybe Candyland is more your speed."

Tim almost snapped back.

 _Don't. He's just trying to mess with me._

 _(And it's working.)_

Either way, Talon had asked for him to distract Robin—a pretty simple task considering the sidekick basically distracted himself. But Talon had never asked for anything before that night, so Tim would do his best to buy him whatever time he needed. There was still a stubborn piece of him, though, the one still loyal to Gotham's Dark Knight, that was praying things were different than they seemed.

Tim didn't have time to consider it much as the named vigilante's partner had recovered and the brawl continued.

But that didn't mean it stopped haunting him, the thought of why Talon had brought him there, the acknowledgement that something was happening over on the bridge where he swore he saw the glint of a knife signal as it was sent spinning over the edge.

It kept Tim's form sloppy, his movements less skilled than they would have been if he wasn't so focused on something else, that something else that was undeniably _wrong_. The ghost of that thought—maybe even a revelation—was spiking hotly in his veins like it was going to burn him alive if he didn't do anything to try to stop it.

He'd been counting out the seconds in the back of his mind since the start.

How long did the man need with Batman? And how long could it take for things to go wrong between them?

Tim jumped back, closer to the ledge of the roof and away from Robin.

Two minutes.

That was the time he'd bought Talon.

Tim had lived up to his promise enough to release himself from it, too caught up in the whirl of adrenaline and battle and…

Panic. A dread-based panic that screamed he was needed where Talon and Batman were, not here with Robin playing a distraction. Besides, Tim had never been very good at being a distraction anyway. No, he was good at being unnoticeable. Invisible.

Once he was in that frame of mind, it made it easier for Tim to slip away, darting off the ledge and through an air vent that he reasoned would be too small for Robin to follow him through. The metallic tunnel clanked awkwardly, but once he was out on the other side, he realized Robin hadn't followed him.

Tim was aware that the assassin's uniform he was wearing made him seem more threatening, less likely to run, and he was willing to assume that Robin figured Tim was lying in wait somewhere and looking for an opening to attack.

But Tim had no shame disproving that misconception. Having Robin off his tail for a bit would make it easier to urge Talon to stop whatever he was doing, to beg him to go home to the loft and let life return to the closest thing to "stable" Tim had ever had. That small hope sent Tim skidding toward the bridge that loomed over the horizon, lights flashing like lightning. Like a warning of things to come.

* * *

"Help?"

Bruce had been taken aback by the mercenary's admission, so much so that he was sure the assassin could have beaten him out of the lock. But his opponent hadn't, lending the man some credibility as Bruce elaborated with an air of suspicion, "I figured with _resources_ like yours you wouldn't need help."

The assassin remained quiet, keeping blade against blade but without the same vigor as before. Bruce could barely make out an eye twitch from behind the mask.

"I betrayed them already," the mercenary muttered, the confession steeled over in a ghostly way. "These 'resources' you fought before at the museum, you won't have to worry about them."

 _This is an act_ , Bruce reasoned. If they were on the same page, then this Talon was admitting to sabotaging something of his own organization—an organization that likely was his whole life, his whole world.

"Then what do you want from me?" Bruce pressed, leaning into the lock as well, close enough that he could make out a human's eyes somewhere in the gleam of orange. He was trying to decode the thoughts held behind those deadened irises, struggling to decrypt the ambiguous meaning there that burned with some kind of resolute intensity.

Cars continued to zoom by along the bridge somewhere over Bruce's shoulder, the lights short-lived imprints on two men who stood at the precipice of a bridge.

"The boy," the Talon muttered, the threatening glint in his knife faltering. "I need you to take him."

That was the last thing Bruce had been expecting.

He waited for something more, for something that could breach the gap between them and make Bruce believe the words coming out of the assassin's mouth.

 _He's not breaking away, but he's also not trying to win—not right now, anyway._ Bruce tested the knife in his hand, noting how his opponent's blade didn't move back but also didn't move closer. _He's trying to keep up appearances._

The observation kept Bruce from breaking away either, an otherworldly sense growing in him that they were being watched somehow.

"I ask you this—not as a man—but as a monster who's played at being one…because that child needed me to. He needed me to be something _more_ than a killer." The knife against the lock was shaking faintly. The assassin lifted his other hand to steady it.

"But I can't be what he needs," the figure pressed on, like being so brutally honest was tearing him in two. "That's why I'm here. And that's why I'm asking you now."

Bruce continued to eye him with cautious skepticism. Here was someone half-holding him at knife point, inches from cutting his jugular, but instead, he was pouring his soul out to him.

"It sounds like you're doing fine on your own," Bruce replied coolly, pushing the thought away.

"No." The man shook his head to augment the word. "No, you're wrong."

The whites of Bruce's mask squinted at the admission.

"The Court, they've learned of him. They might try to conscript him—or worse." The emotion in the person's voice continued to be unnervingly sincere. Bruce was beginning to think that maybe he wasn't lying.

"I was supposed to take him there tonight after this assignment. They're watching me, I know it. So, it has to be now. He has to disappear while we're separated...before they realize."

The assassin must have misinterpreted Bruce's silence as a refusal, proceeding with subdued desperation—a man at the end of his rope.

"He'd never dishonor you. He's loyal, clever, strong…and kind. Incredibly so." Nostalgia was seeping out of the voice, the eerie timbre from earlier vanishing into thin air. A part of Bruce wondered if these words had ever reached the boy they were discussing. "That's why I cannot allow him to fall into The Court's hands, Batman," the assassin insisted. "Even if he survived, the life of an assassin… It'd eat him alive."

Bruce's eyes fell down to the two blades connecting them, the lock beginning to resemble a sign of peace—of understanding—more than a declaration of war.

He was thinking over what the man was asking, turning it every which way to find an answer to the request.

The vigilante tried to recall the minute before Jason and the Talon's partner had split off. The manner in which he'd hid slightly behind his mentor spoke of self-doubt and a skepticism that Bruce now recognized could have been out of shrewdness. He wished he'd been able to see the boy in a fight, but by the way Jason had yet to emerge, he must have been able to hold his own. Or maybe Jason was just caught up in his teasing.

Regardless, the vigilante couldn't shake the thought that this boy could prove troublesome if he was left to The Court.

Unaware of the deliberations buzzing in Bruce's head, the mercenary had lowered the knives slightly, his shaky breathing revealing exactly how beside himself he was.

"Please. He's just a boy."

"I'll hide him—" Bruce could swear he heard the man's voice catch in his throat. "—but on one condition: Tell me where I can find The Court of Owls."

"Alright." The agreement came instantly. "Whatever it takes. Just promise me he'll be taken care of."

Bruce observed the man carefully. He wondered what exactly he was getting into, but on a deeper level, he was curious who this boy was, the person who'd moved an assassin so profoundly. He must have been something special.

"You have my word."

"Thank you." Bruce couldn't see his face, but the manner in which the man's shoulders eased, the calm way he'd breathed the words, revealed a tranquil aura that could only come when one has finally made peace with themselves and with life. "The Court of Owls is—"

And there was a moment where time stopped.

A moment in which a bullet screamed past Bruce and into the person in front of him.

The traffic around them slowed to a halt. The waves in the harbor no longer crashed. And no one breathed.

It was over. Bruce knew it. He'd seen a sniper's handiwork too many times before not to know what a shot through the head would do.

But he never got used to it, to that instant in which time truly felt like it had jolted to a stop, freezing shocked faces and the last glimmer of light in someone's eyes, before rushing back.

The cars starting moving. The waves continued crashing. And only Bruce breathed.

After all, time continued for only one of them.

Bruce hadn't even realized he'd released the knife to stretch out his hand like the motion could stop the projectile in mid-air. He loathed the part of him that had even tried. And the part of him that could do nothing more than watch as the form toppled backwards off the bridge.

It took an eternal, potentially life-costing second to set in, Bruce's instincts lagging while he processed everything around him in gut-wrenching detail, all of it flooding him at once: every last sight, smell, sound. The hurricane of wind. The din of lights. The roar of the ocean—

"NO!"

The scream snapped Bruce back to the present. There was a sniper on the rooftops. Jason was elsewhere. And there was a small boy about to jump from the spot where an assassin had fallen.

Bruce's hand shot out to wrestle him away from the ledge, pulling him back by his shoulders and neck, trying to put him in a hold. "Wait! Kid!"

"LET GO!" The child thrashed madly, the cover being torn from his head in the struggle to reveal raven hair and skin that looked like it'd never seen the sun.

But that wasn't the thing that caught Bruce's attention: It was his eyes, brimming with panic and shock, staring at something he'd do anything to keep from coming true even though it already had.

It occurred to Bruce then that he was grappling with someone whose world was collapsing. The thought stung the child inside of him, forever mourning over a pair of graves. But the adult in him yelled louder, ringing like an alarm that they were both in danger and in need of cover.

"Calm down and _listen to me_!" Bruce growled, trying to pin the boy's arms behind his back. "There's a sniper—"

But it was no use.

In the second it had taken for Bruce to memorize the boy's face, he'd managed to slip out of his grip, already leaping from the bridge after a silhouette Bruce knew was nothing more than a corpse.


	9. Eleven (IV)

_AN: Thanks again to all the people who reviewed! Your feedback was amazing! I appreciate it so much :)_

* * *

 **Chapter Nine: Eleven (IV):**

At one point between hearing the shot make contact and hitting the water, something broke. Tim wasn't sure what it was, but he could hear the shattered sound echoing in his ears. It could've been the surface of the ocean when he'd crashed into it, swallowing him up like black ink.

It could've been a bone: The water was basically an animate wall, jagged knives for waves that stabbed him again and again. Yeah. It could've been a bone breaking.

But Tim knew that wasn't the source of the noise either.

It was something somewhere behind his chest, somewhere in his mind, and that sound resounded repeatedly, incessantly. The sharp crack of that _something_ that Tim couldn't define but also understood had been an integral part of him before everything had fallen apart.

Twenty minutes later, that shattered noise was still ghosting over him between consciousness. It meshed with the frigid, howling wind that kissed his face and ears and the dull bells of a shipping dock that called out from miles away, weeping some kind of withering prayer that echoed across the channel.

The touch of a cool wave brought Tim back, the rocks below and damp air around him taking shape among his hazy senses. Water continued to percolate back and forth through the stones beneath him like fingers through strands of hair, and it took another gust of salty, ocean breeze to coax him into half-opening his eyes. He took in his surroundings through that obscured, unfocused tunnel of vision, languidly absorbing it all as he tried to remember how he'd gotten there and why the desire to remain lost in the lull of the waves was somehow irrational…

"Talon!" Tim bolted upright—a tad faster than his body said he should have—and immediately swiveled his head back and forth, searching the silent, shadowed shore.

Not a second later, his eyes settled on a motionless form nearby and the mask still on the man's face, a precise hole in the center of its forehead that told Tim he shouldn't look underneath it, that the rushing memories of what had occurred on the bridge were real and should be respected. But with trembling fingers, he pulled back the disguise anyway.

And he instantly regretted it.

Tim had seen Talon hundreds upon hundreds of times, but within all those hundreds upon hundreds of times, he'd never once seen a corpse. The two didn't seem to mix somehow: Talon and death. They'd skirted around each other, yes, (That was a reality Tim understood every time the man had left the safety of the loft.) but to be married in the form of pallid skin that glowed in the cloudy moonlight and rivulets of glistening crimson…that was impossible for him to comprehend.

The assassin's mask had been the only shield between Tim and grasping that it really was over, that there would be no going back to the loft together, no return to things that were "stable" and "predictable."

Two hours ago, Tim wouldn't have believed this could be real, all of it overwhelming him with no time to recover, no time to think. Just like the last time this had happened.

But then again, when Tim's dad had died, that broken, icy _something_ hadn't been there as his sight connected with a pair of closed eyes that'd never return his gaze. When his dad had died, there'd been a hurt, an ache. But when Talon died, it…

It was empty.

That was what the feeling was. Like someone had carved out his insides and told him to keep moving when he should've been dead—just like the man in front of him. That was the only feeling freezing over inside Tim as he stared at the oddly-content expression on Talon's face, eyes closed as if he knew the shot were coming, totally at peace for the first time since Tim had met him.

 _Glad to be leaving you_ , supplied a mocking voice, the one he'd had been able to tune out at the gut-wrenching sight of every, single, _smiling_ postcard his parents used to send, been able to tune out for eleven years. But somehow, that night, the thought hit him stronger than ever, looking the boy straight in the face over the body of the closest thing he'd ever had to a friend.

Something definitely was broken.

Tim still wasn't quite sure what it was, but he knew it the moment he felt nothing at the thought of being alone again. For whatever reason, he accepted it. Perhaps he'd always been ruined like that. Perhaps it was just a part of who he was, the kind that would follow him until the day he died no matter what he did.

Tim accepted that too.

Or maybe he was just too hollow inside to reject it.

Regardless, it didn't change the fact that he was kneeling over a corpse, carefully preserving the distance between them like contact with Talon was a solace that he couldn't have even when the man was dead. All Tim could do was process that relaxed expression from behind a set of black, wet bangs and run it over in his mind.

Over and Over.

Being forced to hear his own heart beating, feel his chest rising. And mentally wanting to smother them both.

The lights of Downtown Gotham fogged the night sky from over the cliffs, telling Tim that there were people over there, living their lives completely unaware of a boy who'd just lost everything, and that he'd have to join them eventually. Somehow, he'd have to continue with that vacant emotion as his only comfort.

Either that or…

It shouldn't have been that surprising when Tim sensed someone behind him, a figure surveying the Atlantic like a boy and a cadaver were simple commonalities at midnight.

And for whatever reason, it _didn't_ surprise Tim. It resembled the rest of his existence up until that point, a downward spiral of disjointed happenstances, of life stealing people from him one second and throwing in more the next.

Tim didn't bother to glance up at the figure as they drew closer, seemingly bored with the view of the ocean. Water and rocks spilled in the wake of footsteps that eventually stopped beside him.

From his peripherals, Tim could make out the hems of pants and a pair of dress shoes. Based on the shine of them, they were someone with money. Someone who, at the same time, didn't mind standing over a corpse.

It would have sent a chill down Tim's spine if he cared more about it, and even when the person spoke, voice mixed in a way that made it unsettling and—more tellingly—unrecognizable, it still didn't get much reaction.

"He was a fine solider."

Tim blinked once, eyes remaining fixated on Talon and the spots where green eyes should have shown. Something about this stranger's comment was incorrect, Tim understood, but he was too tired to consider it much; his senses were overloaded enough.

Meanwhile, the newcomer had shifted faintly, apparently eyeing the city lights spread over the night sky. "One more sad thing to add to this city, I suppose—one that used to be so beautiful."

Tim was only half-listening, secretly hoping this stranger would spare him the lecture and leave. All he wanted was to be alone, to have time to consider how it was that the world had gotten flipped upside-down. In a way, it really had: The sky was stained a light-polluted aqua while the ocean shimmered like dark velvet, begging him to rationalize that the night sky should've been the thing that was black and that the ocean should've been blue-green. But for whatever reason, that natural mix-up was just another bullet to add to the growing list of things that were wrong that night, a list that would continue to stretch longer and longer with no end in sight.

The call of the shipyard bells rang out again, and it resonated with that growing desire, the one that craved nothing more than solitude.

Completely unaware of that wish (or maybe too aware), the person continued speaking, "But look at Gotham now. It's a shell of what it once was. Criminals are loose to kill who they please." Tim could feel the figure's eyes on him as they stopped for a moment. "And so-called 'heroes' are unable to save men from being murdered two feet in front of them."

Tim's expression changed slightly at that, rotating his head to the side without looking up at the person. There was something wrong with that implication too, something wrong with the thought of a _random_ criminal shooting an assassin when it would've been easier to shoot Batman, the more sensible target, instead. That didn't add up.

But "easy" or "sensible" or "right-side-up" rather than "upside-down"—maybe none of that mattered anymore. It could've simply been fate.

 _At least, that's what Talon would've…_

"Gotham's become a tragedy, really," the stranger continued, the fabric of their pants rustling as they slipped their hands into their pockets. "An ugly city that'd once held so much promise. This man understood that. You do too, don't you?"

"…you're from The Court," Tim stated absently, still not looking at the form's face. It was more fact than question. After all, how else would this stranger have known where he and Talon had been?

The person beside him hummed in reply, and Tim returned his attention to the man lying in front of him, distantly calmed by the idea that there was one thing in this new, terrifying world that he'd been able to predict. "What do you want?"

"That depends." Tim was aware the person had tilted their head back again, aloofly admiring the malachite clouds. "What is it that _you_ want?"

"…I don't want anything."

"Is that so?" A careful pause. "Then what will you do now? Climb over that cliff and go back to living a 'normal' life? You have no one left, I know. And if I'm not mistaken, Batman saw your face tonight. That's quite incriminating, all things considered."

This stranger knowing so much about the incident should've troubled Tim, but it was that very _lack_ of concern that disturbed Tim most, swallowing his mind and suffocating it like every emotion he'd ever had was being drowned—slowly and meticulously. One by one.

Tim rubbed at Talon's mask in his hands. He'd been unable to release it since he'd taken it off and, instead, lazily observed the ocean droplets that skidded off the water-proof surface, swirling around the taciturn beak and ominous, loud eyes that once had been flecked with green irises. "What I do doesn't matter."

A wave sprayed a blanket of foam some ways away, interrupting the delicate silence as it sparkled like thousands of hopeless stars.

"And what about what this man did? Does that 'not matter?'"

Tim glanced up at the figure's face for the first time. A mask sat there, eyeholes focused on the sky, while its white porcelain gleamed with an eerie intelligence. "What do you mean?"

"Now that he's gone, his dream is too, is it not?" The dark eyes connected with Tim's blue ones for a long moment, surveying him calmly before shifting to Talon, the man in question. "That is…unless someone were to take his place."

"You're asking me to join you."

"In a way," the figure replied vaguely. "More importantly, I'm asking you to consider all the things this man worked for. And how they could all be gone if you don't."

A piece of Tim understood that answering this request was a mistake, but that was the same piece of him that was currently drowning in the void of apathy stirring in him. It left only the recognition that he didn't have anything else to hold on to other than the item in his hands, didn't have anything else to keep him upright in a city that'd since become cold and unrecognizable.

After a long stretch of quiet, Tim's sight drifted back to the mask watching him from his lap. There was something almost symbolic about it, that the mask belonging to Timothy Drake had been lost somewhere on that bridge in Batman's hands.

All he had left now was Talon's and an empty feeling that would soon become his whole life.

"…okay."


	10. Thirty-Three (V)

_AN: This chapter was so hard to write, mainly because of how easy it would be to get the characters wrong and...well, you'll just have to read it, I guess. *sweats nervously*_

* * *

 **Chapter Ten: Thirty-Three (V)**

The dull blip of the radar was the only thing that sounded inside the ship, a single needle of light spinning round and round to accompany the other glowing controls. A curtain of black water hung over the windshield in front, and it fulfilled its purpose of making the vacuum of Gotham's waters feel even more daunting than usual.

But not nearly as daunting as the person who sat beside Bruce, the teenager sizing him up from behind his mask. Jason had been wearing the cynical expression ever since Bruce had summarized for him the events that had occurred on the bridge. It was obvious Jason was waiting for his partner to pick up on whatever had him so troubled, but Bruce was trying to focus on something else, checking the clock routinely.

 _1:16_ , he registered. Thirty minutes had already slipped through their fingers.

The ocean's unpredictability, something Bruce had once counted on, had turned into more of a curse than a blessing, all traces of the boy vanishing in its depths. Bruce understood full-well what all could happen within thirty minutes, and each passing second meant their chances of finding him dropped dramatically.

Finally, one thing gave, and that thing was Jason, the teenager raising a careful eyebrow in Bruce's direction. "The guy really asked you to help him?"

Bruce pressed a few buttons on the control panel before answering, one of the scanners changing colors. "He did."

Jason resettled back in his seat, not unfolding his arms as he gave an incredulous hum. Bruce decided to keep focused on the monitors and ignore asking where Jason had ever learned that look, when he'd learned to be so skeptical—even of his own teacher. The seriousness of his expression made it more and more apparent to Bruce just how much the teenager had aged those past few years…

"Master Bruce," came a voice over the com. Neither of the two in the ship shifted.

"What is it, Alfred?"

"I'm afraid it's bad news," the man sighed. "I believe you're familiar with the Kosov name?"

"Sure," Jason joined, arms still crossed while his gaze flickered between the screen where Alfred's face showed and the person who sat beside him. "Vasily Kosov's in charge of the Ukrainian Mob. What'd he do this time?"

"I'm afraid it's not a question of what he's done, Master Jason, but what's been done _to_ him."

Bruce peeled his attention away from the monitors. "What do you mean?"

"His whole family's been found dead, sir. Himself, his wife, and his three children."

Bruce gripped the controls a little tighter at the news, brushing off the urge to grimace. "How long ago?"

"From what I've gathered, the police only just uncovered them, and it's…well, it's quite public, sir. It must have taken place within the past hour."

"So, it happened while we were fighting the Talons," Jason mumbled to himself. He was implying something with the statement—just like he was implying something with every glance he shot Bruce.

Alfred was a welcome reprieve as the man rejoined innocently, "Regardless, I imagine Commissioner Gordon will be expecting you both. I'm sending the coordinates now, and I suggest you hurry, sir: The media is showing a great deal of interest."

The line went dead followed by the screen flashing a map. The location was on the northern side of Gotham, relatively far from where they were now—and where Bruce imagined the boy from the bridge would be washed up. _Assuming he even survived…_

The dark silence of Gotham's waters grew more and more ominous with each passing moment as Bruce considered their next move.

"Gordon's probably having a field day if it's as bad as Alfred says," Jason eventually relented. It wasn't a loud comment, but any noise seemed sacrilegious against the dull murmur of the engine behind and the pulsing ocean in front. The teenager paused before expanding on his thought, as if he'd noticed the unsettling quiet as well, "We should probably get going."

Bruce inhaled slowly, struggling to convince himself that it was all right to leave as he sealed the draft of air in his lungs. They were probably too late already anyway, too late for Bruce to keep a deep promise he'd made so quickly. There was a premonition dawning on him that somehow that night would come back to haunt him, and the failure stung. But not as much as the realization that leaving was probably exactly what someone else wanted Bruce and Jason to do.

But what else _could_ they do?

Bruce exhaled the stale breath, long and slow, before consenting to Jason's proposal with a wordless tug of the wheel.

* * *

It was bad.

Murders weren't uncommon in Gotham, less so when it came to the upper echelons of cartels and gangs. But when Alfred had said the Kosovs had been "found dead…"

Even after having observed the scene for minutes on end, carefully stepping over mottles of congealed crimson and respecting the stares of lifeless eyes, Bruce was still trying to find a phrase more apropos for the massacre tucked away far-too-neatly in that desolate alley. It called back the ghost of sickness he remembered experiencing when he'd first donned his costume, a vague nausea that he labeled as his brain simply playing tricks on him. Bruce knew his olfactory senses would be enough to snap him out of it, that they could hone in on the distant smell of coffee from officers taking witness statements instead of iron and salt thick as honey and red as dying suns.

Besides, Bruce wasn't the only one there, he kept reminding himself. There was a fifteen-year-old beside him, taking it all in with a subdued calmness. Jason had seen this kind of sordid scene far too often for someone so young, and that was something Bruce was just beginning to realize as he noted how disturbingly quiet the boy was, how quiet the whole alley was in general.

A small spark from behind drew the pair's attention. The sound was followed by the soft glow of a lighter, the flame catching on the chalk-white tip of a cigarette, and the fall of footsteps on pavement that stopped between them.

"This is the worst one I've seen in a long time," Gordon voiced bleakly, his chest expanding as he breathed in the charred air. The bitter, stinging scent was one of the few things that overpowered the smell of blood, and Bruce had long entertained the suspicion that that was the real reason Gordon had ever picked up smoking.

The commissioner blew the vapor into the damp summer air, watching the cloud swirl and twist like it was the best he could offer the five bodies that remained in the alley's dark recesses. Eventually, the oblation dissipated in the night fog, and the moment passed.

"Nothing was missing," Gordon commented suddenly, stuffing his free hand into the pocket of his trench coat. "All valuables are still on their persons, and—" He waved the cigarette in the direction of the corpses, some of its embers scattering to the slick-red cement. "You can probably already tell that they were killed here, but the attacker had to have run into them elsewhere." The commissioner moved his hand back to his mouth to take another drag. "One of my guys found puncture wounds on each of them, but the perp must've ditched the evidence at another location. I've got blood samples already at the lab to see what exactly they were drugged with."

Bruce hummed in dour agreement. There was too much blood for the murders to have occurred anywhere else. The absence of streaking supported that theory, and the lack of minor abrasions and bruising hinted that there was little to no struggle. But that didn't mean the group had been unconscious during the affair, fear still netted in every pair of open, dull eyes.

"Pancuronium Bromide," Bruce muttered, at which Gordon looked to him with dim curiosity. "It's a bit slow-acting, but if it was injected without them noticing, they might've just attributed the initial numbness to exhaustion."

After a considering pause, the commissioner offered a tired shake of his head, refocusing his attention on the bodies with a sigh. "It would fit the time frame. I've seen a lot of malpractice cases with that stuff. Not too hard to get your hands on if you've got the money." Another skein of silvery smoke snaked its way through the air. "And whoever our perp is, they must have some serious resources to take down Kosov: It's been almost impossible for the DA to stick anything to him since he took over the Mob. He's just that careful." Gordon placed a hand to his forehead, the cigarette laced between his fingers, while he eyed Bruce from behind his glasses. "Kosov must've been ruffling some feathers—for someone to send a message like this…"

At that, Bruce's vision returned to the blades left embedded in each and every carved torso, the gold-plated falchions scintillating in odd harmony with the scarlet they were coated in. _It's a message alright._

"Well," Gordon began jadedly, snagging Bruce's attention. "I'll call the boys at the station and have them look into any recent busts on paralytics. Maybe we'll catch a break on this one. Lord knows we're gonna need it."

The flashing of cameras echoed repeatedly from behind the twine of police tape, the clatter of heels and reporters' on-camera speeches divulging exactly what had the commissioner so tired that night: No doubt he was going to have a lot of eyes on him the next few weeks, with a power vacuum left in the Mob and a new threat that ostensibly wanted to make waves in organized crime—although Bruce knew better than to believe the motive was so straightforward. Five glistening blade hilts told him so.

"…you're saying they were paralyzed."

Both men had almost forgotten Jason was there at all, their gazes snapping to him. Jason hardly seemed to notice, his sight doggedly affixed to the remains of the three Kosov children, tracing the numerous trails the blades had traversed across their skin, carving out mountains and cleaving rivers that had spilled lamely to the ground.

"They were awake the whole time."

Jason lifted his eyes to stare past the commissioner—straight at Bruce. The solemnity of his expression was palpable, mirroring the ones he'd exercised a good portion of the night. Bruce knew then that the teenager had noticed the same thing he had, the familiar pattern gracing the blade hilts calling up memories of earlier encounters, one in a museum, one on a bridge, and the idea that they were faced with something darker and more real than they'd first thought.

It all added up to one thing: The Court of Owls was sending a message. And it was intended for them.

* * *

The cave was discordantly noisy when the pair returned. Nothing seemed to want to settle, the flapping of wings above setting an uneven beat for drops of water that echoed at an equally-inconsistent pace. It made it difficult for Bruce to focus on the task at hand, his mask spread across the table in front of him while he digested the events of that night.

Someone else was deep in thought too, Jason leaning against the table beside him with a contemplative appearance, his mouth drawn tight and his unmasked eyes trained on a crack in the floor. Bruce knew the teenager needed time to consider the crime scene they'd recently left, and so he lapsed into tinkering with the cut in his mask where the Talon's knife had made its mark, hoping he had a clean photo of the boy from the bridge; he weeded through the network of frayed wires and prayed that the memory chip hadn't been fried like he feared it was.

"The Talon really asked you to help him?"

Bruce glanced up at the question, subtly surprised. It appeared he'd misinterpreted Jason's long-held silence for shock: In truth, the teenager's mind was still stuck on whatever had been bothering him hours earlier.

"Yes," Bruce finally answered, same as he'd done the first time Jason had asked for confirmation. The man returned his attention to his mask, hefting a pair of pliers before pulling back a strand of splintered PVC. After setting the broken strip aside, Bruce decided to elaborate, aiming to pacify whatever had Jason so irked. "He seemed desperate."

Jason watched him tug at another line of wire, skepticism still saturating his gaze. "And you believed him?"

"…I did."

Jason returned his attention to the floor, and the conversation seem to have died for the most part. One would've thought the constant din of the cave would've helped fill the silence that grew up between them, but it only served to highlight it, encapsulating the tension in the jarring screeches of bats from up above. But Bruce didn't move to end it, and he figured Jason wouldn't either, so he resigned himself to fishing out the memory chip in silence.

"You're being an idiot."

Jason had Bruce's attention instantly, the man leveling him a look that he knew Dick would have squirmed under. But Jason was in no way like Dick, and the teenager dispelled any doubt as he met the glare with an unwavering expression, same as the one he'd shot Bruce the day they'd met.

Upon further inspection, there was little malice on Jason's face, just determination, Bruce decided, and he reclined further in his chair, a warning still flashing in his eyes as he gave Jason room to explain himself. "Is that what you think?"

"Yeah," the teenager was quick to answer. "That's exactly what I think." He gestured to the mask on the table with a short jerk of his chin. "You're still convinced the assassin was being honest."

"And?" Bruce prompted tersely.

" _And_ I think they're toying with us." Blue eyes flew back to Bruce. "I think the whole episode on the bridge was just a ploy, get you invested so it'd be easier to mess with you. And it worked too! They shoved our noses in it by murdering five people without us even realizing—and made sure we knew who'd done it."

"Interesting theory," Bruce drawled, retrieving his tools. "But that would mean they'd have assassinated one of their own just to get across this gambit. He was a good fighter, Jason. That's hard to come by and harder to give up—unless they had no other choice."

"We're talking about people who _butchered_ a bunch of kids while they were still conscious," Jason worked out, his voice revealing that he was more invested in the argument than he was letting on. "I doubt they'd lose some sleep axing one of their own, and to be perfectly honest, if their assassins can do _that_ to children, I don't think I'd lose much sleep either." Jason exhaled a tense breath, his hands clutching the work bench in frustration. "I just can't buy that one of their guys would get so attached to someone that he'd be willing to put his own cult at risk. There's gotta be more to this than that." The teenager leaned back a bit, seemingly content that he'd made his case.

"I agree."

Jason started at the admission—a rare thing to gain from Bruce, obviously waiting for more.

"This is a secret society that's rumored to have existed for centuries, Jason. They didn't get that old by committing flashy murders just to taunt the opposition. Otherwise we'd have known about them a lot sooner." The man glanced up at his son, hoping his verbosity would put some distance between emotion and the topic at hand. Jason still seemed unconvinced, but he wasn't getting defensive, so Bruce continued. "That murder was no doubt intended for us to see. Nonetheless, I'm under the impression that what happened on the bridge was something we _weren't_ supposed to see. It's entirely possible the bridge was just a distraction from the murders like you're saying, but I think—" Bruce snipped a wire. "I think it's the other way around."

There was another long stretch in which Jason absorbed what his mentor had said, and it allowed Bruce to make more headway on his task. After a few more minutes, the edges of the memory chip became visible, and Bruce could already see the residue burned across the emerald surface. He set down his tools with a taught sigh (It was beyond repair.), and his gaze shifted to the other mask he'd tossed on the work bench, amber eyes and a golden beak greeting him. "How was the boy?" he grunted out. "You were both gone quite a while."

Jason gave his partner a look that said they weren't done discussing the previous topic, but he went along with the change nicely enough. "I dunno," he grumbled. "He wasn't super experienced, but he did this flippy thing with his staff."

Bruce quirked an eyebrow in the teenager's direction, watching him stoically from the corner of his eye.

"Some cheap ricochet trick," Jason rephrased casually. "He chucked it at the floor and then…it came back to him was all."

There was obviously something missing in that description, but Bruce decided against pushing it, restoring his focus to the Talon's mask. They'd already checked the insides for DNA, but the reinforced nylon wasn't something to catch hairs or anything else that easily, their search turning up annoyingly dry. Everything they'd checked had had that in common: The city camera footages were either grainy or non-existent; the talons of the boy's uniform removed any chance of lifting fingerprints; even the assassin who'd been shot—His blood didn't line up with the DNA profiles of any database at their disposal.

Bruce ran a tired hand through his hair, acknowledging that their only lead was the second-long glimpse he'd gotten of the boy's face, all black hair, white skin, and blue eyes that sung of a denial Bruce recalled viscerally from his own childhood. The expression he'd worn, the amalgam of emotions… It'd been too genuine, too much so to have been an act.

"Why?" came Jason's voice from beside him, an inevitability that Bruce was hoping could be avoided given his current mood. "Why are you so sure one of their assassins would risk his life for a kid, especially after what we just saw in that alley? What has you so convin—"

"Jason," Bruce growled, letting his hand fall to the desk while he shut his eyes. He didn't need this now, largely because the teenager was digging at something that couldn't be proven. And that was just it: Bruce couldn't be sure. It was all just instinct and speculation. But something about the way the man had talked, the desperation there in his voice and on that boy's face… All Bruce could think about was how, if it were Jason whose life was at risk, Bruce would have done the same thing.

The man reopened his eyes to the sight of two round lenses, observing them like they could reveal that night's secrets if he just refused to lose focus, if he only stared long enough. But frustratingly, only his face reflected back at him over the orange sheen, and it drove him to push back his chair and draw himself to a stand.

"Do you trust me?"

Jason continued to look at him with an unrelenting resolve before it slowly softened. "Of course I trust you, Bruce" he muttered with a hint of indignation. "I'm just saying that you should be more careful: Not everyone's as good as you think—especially when we hardly know anything about who or what we're dealing with."

Jason stared up at his mentor for a fraction longer before making his way to the stairs. He reconsidered at the fourth step, sparing a glance over his shoulder. "And you know, Bruce? It's not always a bad thing if there's one less killer in the world."

The door to the manor slid closed before Bruce could muster the energy to respond, and he was left alone to digest the notion, settling back in his chair with a tired sigh.

It would become more obvious over the next months that that belief was some inseparable part of Jason's philosophy, one that would lead to them being pulled further and further apart—no matter how much either of them wished it wouldn't; the camaraderie that Bruce had once taken for granted gradually became marred with disputes over morality and crime, over what was evil and what had to be done to stop it. It always left Bruce wondering what would become of a boy who could believe that some people were simply beyond saving.

It was only a year later that the irony of Jason's philosophy fully set in—a harsh reality that left Bruce standing on the ruins of a building, one covered in smoke and flames.

The reality that some people just can't be saved.


	11. Thirteen

**Chapter Eleven: Thirteen**

It shouldn't have held Tim's attention the way it did. But in his defense, it wasn't an ordinary thing for him to hear in the bell tower, the familiar sound of snapping bone oddly out of place among the barren stone walls and decaying, wooden floors.

The hazy noise had stirred him awake, and Tim wasn't sure if he was thankful for that or not, for something on the outside that had managed to free him from that evening's slumber—a rerun of a dream that was growing more and more common by the day.

It felt like any time he closed his eyes, he'd be tossed back in.

Tim knew that; it was why he hardly slept anymore. But somehow that night, he'd found himself back there anyway, back to falling from a bridge and being swallowed up by the darkness below. That was how it always was: a sequence that should have lasted all of thirty seconds but felt like hours until he'd be shocked awake, a jolt in his chest spurring his eyes open.

That was how Tim came to find himself in the tower that afternoon, letting his breathing fall back to a normal pace, questioning if he'd woken up outside of that darkness—or further inside of it—until comfortable apathy reclaimed control.

He blinked up at the support beams stretching above, counting each of them in a compulsive pattern he repeated every time he woke. There were always five; the number never changed. To be honest, he didn't know why he bothered counting them. But then again, he didn't know why he did a lot of things anymore…

It was in the middle of that thought that the sounds reclaimed his attention. There was a faint flapping of wings. A muffled shrill. Collections of quick patters that fell along one of the beams, footsteps of some creature or another that had made its way into the bell tower too.

That conclusion wasn't surprising. Tim had run across a multitude of different animals there, noting them with vague interest before going to sleep or heading out for an assignment; he wasn't in the tower often, but he'd seen more mice and rats than he cared to keep track of during his visits, and on rare occasions, birds would find their way in too, presumably to prey on the rodents scattered throughout the place.

Essentially, every animal that could be considered undesirable was there in one way or another. But Tim couldn't really complain. He belonged to the worst group of undesirables: the assassins.

But it was rare to see another Talon there in the bell tower. Tim had caught on to that fact quickly when he'd realized The Court had their assignments staggered. It meant only two would ever be there at the same time, waiting to receive new assignments. The setup was most likely to keep them isolated, keep them loyal to The Court and only The Court. From the moment he'd agreed to this, Tim knew they would seclude him like that, make sure he stayed in line and was useful, but he also knew that was better than the alternative: It was better than being useless.

Besides, Tim joining The Court, picking up where he'd left off… That's what Talon would've wanted, right?

Tim turned his attention away from that dangerous line of thought and back to the tower, back to epistemic thoughts and things that were safe and straightforward. All other emotions could be locked up and tossed over that nightmarish bridge, left to rot at the bottom of a black ocean where no one would ever find them—especially himself.

Meanwhile, the grinding noises had continued from up above, scraping and crunching like something was trying to break a rock with its teeth. But at least the shrieks had died off, leaving Tim with nothing more than a bored curiosity.

He moved smoothly from his spot on the floor, leaping onto the side of one of the muted church bells before maneuvering his way up to the beams. He'd been so quiet that he was certain the animal hadn't noticed him yet, whatever it was probably too engrossed in the poor creature it'd trapped. As he settled down a safe distance away, it struck Tim that hadn't seen _that_ in the tower before, a tiger owl with its eyes glued to its newly-deceased prey.

The more Tim thought about it, the more he realized that he hadn't seen an actual owl for a long time, not since the last moment he'd been in the loft a year and a half before. But this bird wasn't kin to the snowy barn owls Talon had introduced him to years ago, instead speckled white and tan while prominent feathered horns highlighted the dark gleam of its eyes. It was busying itself crushing the wings of the rodent in its beak, slow and methodical like it was drawing some sick delight from it all.

It'd caught a bat.

* * *

There were reasons why Tim didn't like spending time in the bell tower.

It was always too quiet, leaving more room for self-reflection than he cared for, and even when it wasn't, when the walls swelled with a breath of whistling wind or the supports creaked under the strain of the secrets they held, it felt like the whole place was murmuring judgements, cursing its inhabitants before threatening to collapse on their heads.

It made Tim more than willing to give up on the idea of sleep that evening and slip down to the first floor, rows upon rows of dusty church pews and never-lit candles standing watch.

The paradox of the building was another thing: A cathedral had been the last place Tim had expected assassins to take refuge, but there it was, a rundown and sorry excuse for a building with ill-kept trinkets and mosaics so blurred with dust and grime that the angelic faces were beyond recognition. Tim admired the images sometimes when he couldn't sleep, and when it rained, he imagined they were crying.

But somehow, despite the neglect, the windows still managed to fufill their purpose, as tendrils of light, the tragic remains of a sunset, filtered through the numerous tinted panes. They decorated the place with unfitting bursts of color, the beams discarded on the floor like unwanted change. He could never quite distinguish the hues through the hazel of his mask, but Tim followed them anyway, the colors weaving over him until he was close enough to grasp one of the mounted candle holders on the wall and jerk it upward.

Of course, that was exactly what he did, and the expected door grunted open, grinding against the porous stone until there was nothing but a torch-lit passage and—

There it was. The most glaring reason Tim didn't like the brief intervals between assignments.

There was only ever one other Talon in the tower. It was always the same person, and although Tim didn't really care, it would've been nice to have anyone else there instead; Tim wasn't afraid of him necessarily, but there was an ambiguously unsettling air about _this_ Talon that Tim had noticed the moment they'd met, a feeling that made his fingers twitch where, once, an owl had left a scar.

 _"Be careful not to get too close."_

Upon meeting the man, Tim had turned over the recollection like an interesting stone before letting it drop from his hand, and he did so once again, proffering a polite—if not reluctant—nod in the Talon's direction. The man didn't return the greeting, but at least he moved, taking in Tim skeptically before turning back into the corridor, swallowed up by the shadows.

He always arrived earlier than Tim, waiting like a spectral statue on a street corner, maybe even like death itself, until the door would shudder open and the night could be concluded without much fanfare. Or at least, that was how it went on all the nights so far, but with the man's watchful eyes on him, begging for him to slip up, Tim was always on his toes, always punctual, always aware.

He'd been the one to break Tim into the fold, after all. Tim hadn't forgotten that.

As always, it reminded him that when they'd had their brief introduction over a year ago, the man hadn't introduced himself with any name other than "Talon." It was a name everyone bared (Tim was no exception.), but "Talon" meant something different to Tim than just a dehumanizing title handed out by The Court, and he never called anyone by that name, not anymore—and least of all the person next to him.

Tim spared a careful glance to his side.

He hardly came up to the assassin's chest, having to crane his head back to look him in the face. Tim never needed to look, though: He already had the man's mask branded onto his memory, white-hot like iron, sharp enough to recall the sternness of it and the occasional bloodlust that flashed along the metalwork. It was those very features, the austere way the metal swooped over his mask's lenses, that reminded Tim less of an intelligent, patient owl, less of _Talon_ , and more of a different species altogether.

Wren must have been able to feel Tim's eyes, as the man tilted his head in his direction, and Tim righted himself—just slow enough so as to not give himself away.

It wouldn't be another thirty minutes before he could be gone, Tim reminded himself, back out into the open air with a new directive to keep him occupied. He missed it, that challenge of learning another person, memorizing their habits, their goals, and their weaknesses in such private detail that there was nothing left but a _human_. Because no matter how deluded a person was in their apparent invincibility, they were always equally mortal as the next.

There was something fair about that, a consistent fact that Tim could hold on to, as real as the five beams he counted when he woke or sad mosaics that cried when it rained.

Dozens of shadowy eyes redelivered that mortal truth every time Tim stepped into the chamber, dim flames lighting enough of the room to make out The Court of Owls, a wealth of white masks that crowded the veranda looming above. They were always leaned forward as if they could taste the blood of a new victim on their tongues, ravenous and insatiable, but that was something Tim could overlook.

He came in with a new focus each time. Last month, he'd watched the woman on the far left, noting the pendant around her neck and the wrinkles on the backs of her hands. She was likely in her late sixties, and the pendant was a family heirloom, making it easy to distinguish who she was.

It'd become a game of sorts, nothing with any ill intent or larger motive, but something Tim did because he _could_. He'd already profiled the identities of two other people (one a banker, the other a businessman) by the time he'd reached the center of the room.

Wren always knelt in earnest, large and threatening in contrast to the name Tim had secretly foisted upon him, while Tim himself stooped down as if to check if his shoe was untied. But Tim did it regardless. Because that was what was expected of him, and this was all he had left.

He watched his shadow circle him on the floor, the candlelight tossing the imprint back and forth as it wandered as though dazed, and he waited, just like he always did.

There were a few formalities, someone keeping record to the side, penning the date and the affairs of the night, but it didn't take long for orders to tumble down from the balcony. When The Court Leader uttered them, the names of the next batch of equally-mortal victims, it always caused a few observers to crowd closer in anticipation like they were getting a glimpse of some dark, forbidden magic that was too powerful for humans to wield. And maybe that was what it was: something sinister, something evil. Something humans shouldn't touch.

Because as soon as the names were spoken, echoing in the chamber like the fall of a guillotine, they all knew what it meant. It might take days. It might take weeks.

But either way, those people were as good as dead.

* * *

It was late winter in Gotham. The beginnings of March had just sprung up, and although Tim was used to the snow having melted away by then, that year's winter had been especially unforgiving, filled with blizzards that capped the buildings and sidewalks with white powder that had since turned to slush.

That fact reintroduced itself to Tim as he made his careful way through layers of snow, the rooftop patches the only bits that hadn't browned from car oil and soot, and the thick mounds sucked in his feet with every footfall, their harsh crunching solitary noises as they echoed across the buildings. On those nights, it was like being cradled by the sky, the pollution thin enough and himself high up enough that Tim could make out a faint stream of stars stretching along the curvature of the Earth, the anomaly disappearing in the glow of the city on both horizons.

It was too pretty a night for the work Tim usually did, and he was somewhat grateful that a different mystery had brought him Downtown, one other than the mission The Court had assigned. He'd already cracked the latter, actually, having tracked his target to a shoddy motel just outside town, but he couldn't act on the intel hastily: Batman had been in Europe for a while three months ago, but now that he was back in Gotham, Tim was guessing the man would be noticing his activity—along with the other Talons'—and unlike them, Tim didn't think he was good enough to handle Batman on his own yet. It'd be better to keep low, strike when he knew the vigilante wasn't looking and save himself the trouble.

That understanding had urged Tim to sneak into the GCPD headquarters the previous week. A particularly nasty storm had left few officers there, most of them either out on calls or stuck in their own homes without a way to come into the station. It'd made it the perfect time to slip through their security and swipe the reports Tim had wanted, ones from back when the GCPD had been looking into the Dark Knight, wondering who he was and if he was friend or foe.

They'd done most of the leg-work, actually, and as much as Tim could've done it on his own, the pilfered files had spared him that. All that'd been left to do was sift through a plethora of alibis that could have been staged, those and James Gordon's accounts. ( _He probably knows_ , Tim had thought, mildly impressed when he'd realized the GCPD Commissioner seemed to have been pointing detectives in all the wrong—although notably feasible—directions.)

Over the past month, Tim had taken to shadowing a handful of potential candidates, but he was fairly certain that night's one was correct. He didn't know why; it was just a gut feeling. But he'd learned to trust his instincts because, more often than not, they were right.

The radiance of a lavish dinner party caught Tim's attention, the glittery affair taking place a few buildings away. Knowing he'd reached his destination, he settled down in a place free of cameras and fiddled with the specs of his lenses, trying to get a closer look through the huge, garish windows.

It was the first thing that met his eyes, so he couldn't help but notice the recognizably-wrinkled hands and family-heirloom pendant of an aristocrat seated at the far end of the room. She was talking happily with some other benefactor to the charity event, and Tim was struck with how easily she continued on with it all, how unperturbed she was donating money to a hospital when she'd voted twelve people dead only the day before.

But the world has always been filled with people wearing masks, and who was Tim to judge? He _was_ one of those masked people, and—even worse—he was one of the ones who carried out the most heinous deeds.

The thought reminded him he still had a deed right then that needed doing, and Tim continued skimming the attendants for a handsome face and black hair. It didn't take long to find him, the billionaire swamped by women and handling the conversations with gentle reservation. He must have cracked a joke, as the group surrounding him was in an uproar, probably more than the jest deserved, but everyone wears masks. Tim kept telling himself that.

Still, for whatever reason, he found himself pulled down onto the bitumen roof, head tilted to the side. Tim was so involved in watching the man, catching the calculating glance he shot at his watch—so quick no one saw, how he was holding a champagne flute that was strangely full for someone who was supposed to be an excessive drinker, and the quicksilver way he took in everything about whoever he was talking to, like he was snapping mental photographs to be observed later, before slipping an arm around a waist like the playboy he was said to be.

Tim was so caught up in it because, in part, he saw the same things in himself: He'd assumed he was the only person with those absurd, robotic behaviors, like he was alien and like, maybe, those quirks explained why he couldn't click with others, why being alone had always seemed the better alternative. But right then…it was like looking in a mirror, and Tim was so engrossed in it that he almost wasn't yanked back from the epiphany.

Almost.

The revelation had lasted only a second, because the instant he'd moved to sit down, there was that familiar tug across his chest, back again like fire, the feeling of skin stretched too thin. He was an assassin now. Tim was reminded of that often enough. Any time he moved his shoulders too quickly, anytime he breathed, there was always that pull, waiting for him like an old friend, that explained there were four distinct scars running parallel to his sternum, evidence of his training with The Court and that he wasn't his own person anymore.

Tim had lots of scars, now that he thought about it, and they were why he rarely took off his uniform—like somehow the cloth and armor would guard them and hide them, because they were the kind of scars he knew wouldn't heal.

The uniform was oddly protective like that.

Looking back on it then, it almost seemed impossible that Talon had been able to shed his armor, been able to remain human despite all the corpses he must've walked over to get home those mornings. It was a scary acknowledgement, but Tim was learning more of those scary things by the minute, more personally and in-depth than he'd ever wanted, as if he was getting a sacred glimpse beyond the grave at a person he'd been foolish to think he'd understood.

But everyone has something to hide.

Talon had probably been keeping something from Tim as well. He wasn't sure if that made it easier to move on, but if the sentiment was true, it stood to reason that Bruce Wayne was hiding something too. Whether or not he was Batman, Tim wasn't quite sold yet, but for a man who'd just lost his son, he was too content, too happy. He secretly hoped Bruce Wayne really was the Caped Crusader, if nothing more than to have an explanation as to how eerily unfazed the billionaire was.

His son had died in Europe a while back. A bombing in Sarajevo, Bosnia. It matched up with the time frame, and if the teenager had been Robin... Well, it would've filled in a lot of blanks.

Tim tilted his head to the other side, gaze fixed to the blue-eyed billionaire. He was chatting it up with a different group of high-class patrons by then, looking fairly harmless as he flashed a million-dollar smile. His drink had vanished somehow, and although Tim wasn't sure where else it could've gone, he doubted the man had drank it.

Bruce Wayne...He was an enigma all right.

Although Tim was certain he could've broken through one of the windows and found his answer pretty fast, uncovered if Bruce Wayne really was Batman, if his intuitions were true, he wasn't sure hand-to-hand combat was how he wanted them to be introduced. Tim was patient, though (It's how he usually uncovered things in the end.), and he settled back for the long haul, shaking off the unnerving knowledge that his own parents had probably attended those types of banquets quite often.

Everything went as expected concerning the extravagant affair. Eventually, everyone took their seats at snow-white tables, sipping at alcohol worth a week's pay for the average person, and they all clapped whenever anyone else did, like frauds desperately trying to blend in.

It was all expected, naturally, and Tim didn't mind. He liked mysteries and twists, but consistent and predictable—He'd always liked those more.

It was why he sat up so quickly when it happened.

Because there was no way. There were no cameras on him, Tim had made sure of it. And even the occasional footprint in the snow—There was more coming down in thick flakes by then, more than enough to cover his tracks within the time he'd been waiting. He hadn't been followed. He hadn't been seen.

So how was Bruce Wayne looking right at him?

It was like Tim had been shot, too stunned to move. He didn't know if he wanted to, because if the blue eyes followed him, Tim wasn't sure what he'd do next.

He ran through all the possible explanations, trapped under the gaze. The two buildings were too far apart for the man to have spied him without some kind of visual tech or enhancements, and with all the lights of the charity event, the reflections on the insides of the windows would be too overpowering to see much outside anyway. But…Bruce Wayne was holding his sight in place, more than could be excused as an innocent glance through the glassy panes, one that had wound up aimed directly at the assassin on the other side.

It was something extrasensory, something psychic. The phantom sense that comes when one hears their name spoken only to turn and find it hadn't been anything at all.

It added up to one conclusion: This man had to be him, had to be Batman. There was no other way to explain it. And as much as Tim knew the Dark Knight was well-rounded in both sleuthing and combat, Tim was beginning to think maybe he'd been brazen when he'd assumed he could beat him in the former, like they were on equal playing fields, staring each other down through a layer of glass. It told him he should be even more careful. It told him to stay away.

Because that night, even when Tim had covered himself from every angle, somehow, Bruce Wayne had seen him—and maybe not in the physical sense—but in the way that counted, the way that was dangerous for an assassin who wasn't supposed to feel.

The man's mask had disappeared, seeming somber and grave like he was grasping at something he knew was just barely out of his reach. Tim thought of a son that had died in Bosnia, and he realized there was a distant hurt there in that gaze: It was the thin mask of a mourning father, one that had been removed for just a second like maybe—maybe the man was trying to communicate those feelings to the spirit he somehow knew was watching. Tim knew that was what it was, probably some coincidence that he'd been the one on the receiving end of it, but for just that moment, Tim's mask was gone too; scars and thoughts alike were laid bare.

Those moments are dangerous for assassins, because in that instant, a heartless murderer vanished, leaving behind a thirteen-year-old who was a little lost, a little empty, and more alone than he'd ever thought possible.

But then, the man's attention was caught by someone else, back to glittery lights and things that are fake, the solemnity vanishing like it was never there at all.

And Tim—

Tim vanished too.


	12. Thirty-Five

**Chapter Twelve: Thirty-Five**

It was the dreams that were the worst.

They always started the same, a repetitiveness about them that should have gotten old night after night. But they never got old, just continued to reopen old wounds.

Bruce hoped that he could've at least learned the signs. That way, he might've been able to fight them off. But with the speed of the bike beneath him, the dashboard lights blaring and telling him it couldn't go faster— _couldn't be over faster_ —it was like he'd been thrown back to that very night, snow-capped mountains lining the distance, smoking buildings streaming past him, and that never-ending panic ripping at his chest.

Somewhere within the deafening chaos of twisting flames and black clouds, there was something louder, the paced blip of a tracer that Bruce had pulled up on his dash. It was a small thing, tiny as a pinprick. Yet it was the center of the world right then. Just that yellow circle, so close but permanently out of reach.

The snow gave way in waves when Bruce threw himself off the bike, the vehicle spinning off to the side as he raced forward. He didn't need to see the tracer anymore, didn't need to hear its steady sound. He'd trade his life to hear a steady heartbeat instead.

But the dreams always ended the same way, always ended in fire and smoke and the earsplitting cry of metal walls being pulled apart, the culmination of it all enough to rend the world. It should have. It really should have, because that was what it did.

The world wasn't whole anymore.

That was all Bruce could think as he stared at the remnants of the warehouse, flames licking at the sad piles of steel, now sitting on wisps of ashen snow. The building continued shrieking as Bruce tore it even more apart, looking, always looking. And even when he found it, found what he'd been looking for, he kept looking. Because the person he found wasn't him; his partner was still out there somewhere, still out in the world with a heartbeat and a smile and a glow that could challenge the sun.

But there wasn't anything past the somber glow of flames. Not anymore.

Because Jason wasn't there anymore.

" _Bruce_ ," came a voice, and just like that, it all gave way.

Bruce hadn't even been asleep this time. Just staring at the glow of Gotham's skyline, barely visible through the window. It was as if he'd been searching unconsciously, thoughts pulling him back to that night even when he was awake, when Sarajevo was 7,000 miles away from him.

He blinked at his reflection.

It wasn't him, really. Just Bruce Wayne at his usual event, champagne glass in hand, surrounded by the constant barrage of perfect white smiles and perfect white jewels that all boiled down to perfect white noise, easily forgettable but stubborn to tune out—impossible, even, as Bruce Wayne was always in the thick of it.

Yet there Bruce was, staring pensively out at the world because he was looking for someone. Maybe he was looking for Jason still, asking the world why it sheltered murderers instead of teenagers with cheeky grins and bright blue eyes. Maybe Bruce was looking for himself, the piece he'd lost that night. Or maybe…he was looking for someone else.

" _Bruce_ ," came the name again, someone behind him drunkenly frustrated by his aloofness. It pulled him back in: the clink of drinks became audible again; the lit skyline outside the window dimmed into nothing more than a reflection. And with some nebulous strength that he himself didn't understand, Bruce managed to slip on a smile—and turn.

* * *

He was always looking for someone.

Perhaps that was why it was easier to be Batman than Bruce Wayne, to have a reason to look, because in the life of a vigilante, things were always hidden, always in need of being searched for. There were clues and good guys and bad guys. And it wasn't black and white all the time, but it was something.

Even then, though, there were nights when Bruce came back to Alfred and the cave and the continuous stream of clues, and he wanted to quit. He was never quite sure what that meant, but it was a thought that occurred daily.

Some days, Bruce wanted to quit being Batman, quit the shadows and the lies, and other days, he wanted to quit being Bruce Wayne—because that was just as much of a lie. But in the end, Bruce knew it came down to wanting to quit neither or wanting to quit both; the two had to coexist, because Batman needed an identity, and Bruce Wayne…Bruce Wayne needed a purpose.

And so, it was some unholy hour (always was), and Batman stood in the shadows, waiting for the room to clear. It was an ornate home, one with long, crimson drapes framing the windows and antique furniture that must have totaled in the millions. Bruce didn't used to think much of it, but the affluence of it all was enough to make his stomach twist, repulsed, because there were kids in the world desperate enough to deal or kill or steal tires for food.

But death comes down hard on everyone, no matter rich or poor. It was that same kind of fateful providence that had led Bruce to the parlor of an elderly woman's mansion that night, just waiting.

A door closed.

"They're gone now," Gordon sighed, standing alone in the space with a look of tired dismay circling his eyes. He appeared older, the light catching on the white streaks in his hair, as he looked down at the scene in front of him.

It was another moment before Bruce stepped out. He had already gathered enough from his place in the corner, enough to know that this was more than what it seemed.

"Our victim's sixty-eight. Veronica Jacobs," Gordon started. "Her family was big in the shipping industry, and she sold the company for a fortune a few decades ago. Since then, she mainly stuck to investing," he continued, taking in the vigilante who was surveying the scene. "Didn't have to step on many toes that way, so no known enemies. Actually, she was quite the altruist, a Mother Theresa of sorts."

Bruce already knew as much; although the particulars were a bit before his time, he'd seen this woman before at a charity event—multiple, actually. Something about her had always been off, a perfectness that didn't fit with people who lived in the fairytale world of millions. People kill for that kind of money, become corrupted by it.

So, as expected, Bruce had looked into her long before that night. But his search had only proved that that perfection was true, not a single stain of sin on her life.

Back then, it had made Bruce even more suspicious, and now that mistrust was quickly gaining footing as the heiress was dead, killed in her home in the middle of the night, and all the usual explanations were quickly being tossed out.

"Not a robbery," Bruce grunted, eyeing the pendant around her neck. _A family heirloom_ , he guessed, the jewelry seated just beneath the red line drawn across her throat. Markedly, it was untouched.

There were hundreds of other valuables in the room that could've been stolen too, priceless bric-a-brac crowning the fireplace's mantle, but even the jewels in the chandelier remained, shimmering dimly above their heads.

"That's what we're thinking: The maid who found her said nothing was missing. And it's not a crime of passion either," Gordon added, "Jacobs' friends said she hadn't been seeing anyone since her husband passed."

Yet there they were, the GCPD commissioner and Gotham's Dark Knight, looming over a corpse with no apparent motive.

"There was one thing of interest, though," Gordon offered suddenly, hands in the pockets of his trench when Bruce looked up. "We called her son in Memphis. Mentioned she'd been having problems thinking straight, remembering—more than could be excused by old age. He pushed her to see a specialist, and he said she was diagnosed with dementia just last week. No one else knew, but…it might be something."

Bruce didn't comment in words, instead digesting the statement with a considering hum as he turned back to the woman on the floor. Her wrinkled hands laid useless at her sides, nothing under the nails to indicate she'd been caught in a struggle. And yet the cut was on her throat, in front where, typically, she should have been able to see her killer.

Bruce spared a glance up to the ceiling. _No rafters._ So, no one had jumped down and caught her by surprise. The side then: the knife must have come from right where Bruce had been waiting before. It was the only spot in the room that wasn't touched by the light, perfectly concealed by a tall bureau and the whispering drapes.

 _A knife from the side. Tossed._

Bruce's eyes lingered on the only mark marring the woman's flesh, that single slice across her neck, thorough yet strangely docile.

Whoever had done the job was obviously well-trained. And maybe it was something that could be chalked up to calculation, to caution, but Bruce couldn't help but hope that murder wasn't yet in their blood: Because cold-blooded murderers don't mind watching someone die from point blank. But here, distance was purposely put between killer and victim, enough to hide the look of horror that comes in one's last moments. Enough to hope.

A stretch of silence settled, one in which the wind easing through the window shook the chandelier, its jewels shining like frozen rain.

"No witnesses, I take it?"

Gordon shook his head. "Not a single one. The camera feeds were looped like always, and the few servants that were here—They didn't see a thing. Outside of the head trauma, though, there were no injuries; Jacobs was the only target."

Bruce exhaled carefully, suddenly feeling his age.

It was the usual M.O. It was why Gordon had been so quick to notify him. Five hours of Bruce Wayne being in New York to check on Tyler Chemicals, and this was what happened.

It'd been that way for a while, actually: coming back to homicides or disappearances of anyone from crime lords to aristocrats. Always when Bruce Wayne was out of Gotham. Almost like—

 _Like someone has me pegged._

"There's the dents this time too," Gordon was back, still looking at the corpse with a subdued air, "I had my guys tag the ones we could find. There's a few just outside." Bruce gave a grim nod, and after another moment, the pair slipped out into the hall.

There wasn't much point; Bruce knew what they would find the second Gordon had spoken, and there they were: small, crescent-shaped dings along the wall with yellow police tags taped beneath them. Just two marks this time. But it must have been enough.

 _"Some cheap ricochet trick," Jason had said, "he chucked it at the floor, and then it came back to him..."_

The words returned to Bruce as he took in the scuffs, around an inch in diameter and guided so that one of the marks would lead directly to the next. The two of them were both distractions, perfectly angled to hide the face of the person who had made them until any witnesses would be unconscious.

Bruce could trace the path back, back to the point where the boy might have been standing, and he found he didn't have the heart to look away. It'd been months, but that absence, one of a person who once had been there—It emphasized the fact that there were only two people in that hall. And these crime scenes... They used to be searched by three.

A solemn silence haunted the place right then, filled with so much regret that it was as if Bruce could feel it on his skin, damp and cold and empty. It must have been strong enough to be obvious.

"He was a good kid."

Gordon's comment fell flat, but it was a nice thought, similar to the other ones Bruce had heard since Jason had died.

"It's not your fault," Alfred had said one night, "there's nothing you could have done."

That was a nice thought too, the same sympathy held in it, but it was never true: There were plenty of things Bruce could have done that night. Plenty of reasons that Jason's death was his fault. He should've kept better tabs on his partner, should've been faster or smarter, enough to know that something was off. Bruce should have just been honest for once and _talked_ to him, because Jason was his son.

At the end of the day, that was what Jason was. And then he was dead.

Bruce's attention was still pinned to that spot in the hall when Gordon spoke again, the man's eyes tracing the rug beneath them. "You know, I've been in this business a long time, son. Long enough to know those kinds of losses—They take a lifetime to get over. If anything ever happened to my Barbara, well…."

A faint thread of wind worked its way through the hall then, but Gordon didn't once move his gaze from the floor. It was as if he was expecting the damask pattern to come to life like it could somehow make things better. It wouldn't. Couldn't.

"I know it's not much," the man continued, "but if there's ever anything I can do to make things easier, just…"

That was as much as Bruce heard.

Because Gordon looked up then to find himself alone.

* * *

The familiar glow of electronics lit the back half of the cave, illuminating the floor and disturbing the bats above. In an effort to corroborate the dementia diagnosis, Bruce had pulled up a listing of Wayne Biotech patient histories on the computer bank's screens. There hadn't been much success in those regards, meaning the victim had visited a doctor outside of Gotham—either that, or paid for someone under the table. But, Jacobs _had_ invested funds in Wayne Enterprises' neurological research a few days prior to her death, enough to assume the diagnosis story was true.

"Digging into the archives yet again, I see," Alfred deadpanned, coming up beside Bruce with something tucked beneath his arm. "Am I to assume this breech of company policy is _not_ something I should mention to Lucius?"

"Jacobs was trying to keep the diagnosis from prying eyes…"

"Heaven forbid eyes _would_ be prying, sir."

Bruce didn't address the sarcasm, still focused on the screens. "Her son was the only one who knew—her next of kin. She had staff on consistently at her mansion, almost like she was paranoid of being left alone." Bruce rested his elbows on his desk, lacing his fingers pensively. "I imagine somehow she would have seen this coming."

"You believe she knew her killer?"

"In a way, Alfred, I think she _was_ one of her killers." When the Englishman sent him an intrigued look, Bruce pulled up a collection of videos on the monitors, footage from the murder scene. Each screen covered a different room, and it all looked fairly ordinary, people moving between the spaces without any sign of malaise. Alfred raised an eyebrow, but he continued to watch patiently, nothing amiss on the screens until, suddenly, the footage flickered, and everything was wrong.

It was as if a ghost had gone through the mansion, the figures previously walking about the rooms collapsed and still; the elderly woman who had been sitting in the parlor was now bathing its floors red.

"Looped footage," Alfred summarized, continuing to take in the paused crime scene as bars of static ran over it, "your assassin's handiwork, it would seem."

Bruce clarified grimly, "I think Jacobs was a member of The Court. If she truly had been suffering from dementia, who knows how severe it may have become. There could have been the potential that she reveal something about the organization unknowingly—meaning she wouldn't have been worth the risk to keep alive."

"You're saying the homicide was proactive then?"

Bruce nodded. "It would be a motive. And the footage and dings already match up with a Court murder."

"Naturally," Alfred dipped his head, shifting whatever thing he was carrying, "but how will the Batman respond to The Court, I wonder? Or…will Bruce Wayne perhaps be the one responding?"

Bruce leaned forward over his clasped hands.

The idea had merit: Assuming The Court comprised aristocrats, the Wayne Enterprises owner would likely be a welcome member if he presented himself as a potential candidate. But there was still the conjecture that one of their assassins knew of Bruce's double life. As of then, no one had targeted him in his civilian identity, implying that his cover hadn't been blown to the rest of The Court—not yet, anyway.

"No," Bruce decided, reasoning with the keyboard in front of him, "best play it safe for now and keep to areas that are less gray. I still have other options."

"Very well," Alfred hummed. He pulled up a chair and settled down. "While you plan, Master Bruce, _I_ will be attending to other matters." The man flipped open the object in his hands, the book's binding cracking at the movement and drawing Bruce's attention.

If he'd learned anything in the time he knew Alfred Pennyworth, it was that breaks were something the butler rarely pursued. But it'd become a habit of Alfred's in the months since Jason had passed, simply sitting beside Bruce in the dead of night with something to busy himself with, anything from sowing to cleaning or, as of late, reading. It might have been his way of coping, of processing things in the presence of another person. But sometimes, it seemed as if Alfred was doing it more for Bruce than for himself.

Bruce wasn't sure how to feel about that, but Alfred never pushed for anything more than quiet company, so he let it be, eyeing the cover of the novel before offering, " _A Tale of Two Cities_?"

"Ah, yes," Alfred rejoined blandly, removing his bookmark, "the crown of Victorian literature. Dickens' finest, some would say."

"Uh-huh," Bruce answered with his mouth pulled to the side. In the end, he decided to turn back to the computer screens without commenting on Alfred's Anglophilic disposition. There were still things that needed doing, anyway, and Bruce was already under the impression that to make any kind of move against The Court, he was going to be pulling a lot of strings.

The man leaned back in his chair, his fingers finding their way to the keyboard as he mulled over his options.

In The Court, there was at least one assassin who knew his identity, someone shrewd enough to figure it out but, for whatever reason, deciding to keep it confidential. That meant that if Bruce was going to make any counter, the first person who needed to be dealt with would have to be _that_ person. Someone young and clever who used a collapsible bo staff. Someone Bruce had seen once before.

The computer keys began sounding, a plan forming.

There was no way Bruce could predict who The Court would target next. But perhaps he could _influence_ their decision, arrange it so a threat to their existence would be out in the open, a threat that was intelligent enough to make them send an equally-intelligent Talon to handle the job—hopefully the one Bruce was wanting.

A listing of Arkham Asylum inmates flashed onto the main monitor, the roster scrolled down toward the "M"s. _He's still there_ , Bruce considered upon reading the name. It was the perfect person for his plan: someone sane enough to pull out of the asylum _and_ one who had a history of ruffling the upper-class' feathers.

Bruce pulled his hands back from his keyboard, reclining in his chair thoughtfully.

It would take a few months for his nascent plan to be put into motion, but that couldn't be helped. Until then, Bruce would make do, orchestrating everything around one night in which "Bruce Wayne" would coincidentally be out of Gotham—preferably on a business trip of minimal import.

"Might I inquire what you're doing, sir?" came Alfred, his book forgotten in his lap when he noticed a monotone ringing coming from the computer. A set of ten digits glowed on the monitors: a phone number.

"J'onn owes me a favor, Alfred," Bruce answered, a knowing look in his eyes, "I think it's time I took him up on it."

* * *

 _AN: I just want to mention that I take dementia very seriously. It runs in my family, but...I guess I just tie in bits of myself in everything I write. Still, I hope I didn't offend anyone with that._


	13. Fourteen, Thirty-Five (I)

**Chapter Thirteen: Fourteen, Thirty-Five (I)**

It was one of those quiet nights in late July, the kind where the sky was somewhat clear, stars shining coyly through layers of pollution and remote city lights. Of course, those very nights were ones that were quiet less in peace and more in anticipation, distant leaves shaking in the breeze as if uttering incantations, something demonic and awful that condensed the air itself into a force thick with expectation.

Naturally, there was a reason for that. Tim knew it. But he was too busy to think of much else past the unnatural calm that came with the heft of a blade in his palm and the pressure of a task yet to be done. The here and now—That was all that remained. Everything else was irrelevant, unimportant.

That "here" was composed of a dull sense of vertigo, hand in hand with the break-neck speeds whistling through the sky of metalwork above. Pavement rushed by just inches below, it all flying by so fast that the cement resembled water, a slippery stream that would catch Tim if he let go, welcoming and feather-soft. Of course, a high-velocity collision with concrete would probably be deadly, but…

There was something oddly tempting about it, though.

Tim shook the thought from his head, wrenching his eyes away from the small sliver of the world that he could see through the whirring wheels and pavement and metal. He had a job to do, so he returned his attention to the last remaining brake fluid hose.

It was an unusual assignment, but Tim had brushed elbows with the unusual plenty of times before. Still, finding himself on the underside of a prison transport? That was an uncommon three a.m. location, even for a Talon.

Waiting until his target got to Blackgate prison wasn't the best idea, however. (It'd only complicate the matter.) So, Tim didn't complain and sliced the tube to his right, admiring the fluid that oozed out and dripped onto the road. The drops vanished as soon as they hit the pavement, long-forgotten as they were instantly replaced with new cement.

Admittedly, cutting off the brakes was a crude method, but Tim wasn't going to take his chances with a squadron of police cars—not if he could help it; by the time the drivers realized to kick in the emergency brake, Tim would already be long gone, assignment completed.

And frankly, he was a bit curious to meet this "Lonnie Machin." A sentence in Arkham, an in-process transfer to Blackgate, and an obvious dislike of the upper-class weren't usually enough to make The Court members so antsy, but then again, this person did pose more of a threat than the everyday ruffian: Machin was a Robin Hood of sorts, having stolen considerable sums of money from large corporations and transferred them to third world countries. Even more impressive was that he'd done it all from a juvenile correctional facility, nearly causing a rebellion from behind bars until Batman managed to shut him down. In the end, despite Machin's young age, it was posed that Arkham's stricter security would be able to hold him.* That is, until a few weeks ago…

The sudden change to Blackgate was suspicious, but maybe Machin had already figured out a way through Arkham's near-impregnable walls. It wouldn't have been that much of a problem, not for a child-genius.

That impressive intellect was probably why Tim had been the one assigned to finish him off, this "Anarky," "Moneyspider,"—or whatever name Machin decided to go by these days. It wasn't anything personal, but orders were orders, and right then was the best time to strike, Bruce Wayne gone and the relatively vulnerable underbelly of the prison transport creating the perfect opening to sneak in.

Tim was tiny enough to fit underneath the vehicle, although when the transport swerved into a different lane, loose stones flicking up and dinging the metal, a wave of primal tremor crawled up his spine, the kind that boiled down solely to biology and not a state of mind. Years of assassinations had already started taking their toll, a nonchalance about death emerging that made it seem more intriguing than anything else. Ultimately, all it took was a cautious exhale before his nerves were back under control.

Tim carefully reached into his belt and withdrew his tools, mentally preparing himself before forcing two knives upward into the metal. The blades would show through the floor now; he was on the clock.

An eight-inch radius would be enough for him to slip in, he decided, and Tim made quick work of his make-shift entrance, working the circular cut-out into the inside of the vehicle. As expected, a din of noise poured out to meet him, the officer inside barking at his radio while _zings_ of bullets ricocheted on the floor just outside the opening. Backup was likely close behind; he had five minutes.

Not wasting time, Tim swung himself into the transport, one half of his staff quick to knock the firearm out of the officer's hand. The other half ricocheted about the interior until it made contact with the officer himself, sending his head back into the wall with enough force to render the man incapacitated.

No witnesses.

With that handled, both parts of the weapon found their way into Tim's hands once more, and he slipped the pieces into the straps on his back, glancing about in search of his target. There was only one prisoner on the transport, so Tim's attention instantly settled on the shock of red hair and blue eyes of someone not much older than himself.

Machin looked surprisingly calm, however, leaned back in an orange jumpsuit with his wrists handcuffed to a spot on the bench he was seated on. Actually, "calm" wasn't the right word for the prisoner's expression: Machin seemed downright _fascinated_ by the masked assassin in front of him, head tilted as if Tim had made an interesting move in a game of chess instead of standing there with a knife already in his hand.

"Ahh," the boy breathed, eyes raking over the Talon uniform, "so _you're_ the one he wants."

Tim faltered for a second. _Wh—what's he talking about?_

And of course, that was when everything went wrong.

* * *

"He's already here," Bruce muttered as he came to a stop three-stories up. He'd been shadowing the transport for a while, and the small trail of brake fluid left on the road below told him his time hadn't been a waste. There was a new heat signature picking up on his scopes too, a small blur of red and orange on the underside of the vehicle.

Bruce snapped a spare grapnel into place, readying himself for what would hopefully be a productive evening. "Have paramedics on standby, Alfred. The guards will probably be suffering from whiplash along with other injuries."

"Very well," came the agreement, "let us hope only the guards will be in need of that assistance."

Bruce fought back a grimace at the reminder. Even though the wound was already two weeks old, his rib cage still stung, bruises burgeoning along his left side from a particularly nasty mission with the JLA. But he'd already put the pieces in motion for this plan, so Bruce would bite the bullet and see it through himself. That didn't mean Alfred wasn't concerned, though.

"Do take care, sir."

Bruce grunted out a noise that could be taken as an affirmative before ending the connection, lining up a shot with the back end of the transport barreling down a stretch of road. He'd wait until the assassin was on the inside before shooting, just to make sure he had him caught. Until then, he could wait…

A pregnant wind came from behind him right then, caught in the folds of his cape for just that one breath like a well-wish before vanishing. He hoped it was a good sign, because that night—It was about so much more than The Court of Owls. Everything that "Batman" meant, everything "Robin" had once meant. The both of them had a stake in that night that he wanted to see through, to see if there had even been a point in letting the Joker live.

To see if Jason had been right all along.

Bruce shoved the thought aside, concentrating on the feeling of the grapnel in his hand and the events taking place down below. It didn't take long for one of the heat signatures on the inside of the transport to shift, standing with an arm outstretched (It was likely a guard shooting at an opening in the floor.), and it would be just another second before the third figure would make its move. Just one more and—There!

The grapnel gave out a satisfying hiss, a second of expectant delay stretching before the hook collided. Bruce had to work fast, instantly firing a second line in the opposite direction against a sturdy building. It would hold up to the tension. It had to, because Bruce was already gone, following the vehicle from above as it jolted from the sudden pull of the line holding it back.

All according to plan.

* * *

The thunder of crunching metal drew Tim's attention to the back end of the transport, something speared through the door like—like a grappling hook. That was what it was, something strong enough to slow down a three-ton vehicle when its brakes were cut, and suddenly, Machin's calmness made a horrifying sort of sense.

An acute claustrophobia set in within the one heartbeat it took for everything to click: Tim was walled in on four sides, the vehicle instantly too small, too secure, with someone who shouldn't have been in Blackgate—probably shouldn't have even been in Arkham. But Machin was there and aloofly entertained by the turn of events, as if it was something to be expected. In reality, it truly was to be expected, because this whole thing…

 _It's a set up._

That was all that Tim could think before the transport lurched forward, wheels screaming under the strain, and the whole world was turned upside down. Gravity was swiftly flipped to be a horizontal force as Tim found himself thrown back against the wall, hard enough that he was certain he heard his own skull crack at the connection.

For a few moments, there wasn't much past the blurry haze of pain and shrieking metal, the back doors having been ripped open somewhere along the line to reveal the rest of the road, a few trees streaming by while streetlamps cast urgent orange along the pavement, the lights racing by until the vehicle creaked to some kind of stop.

Details were flooding in in a chaotic mess. The floor was beneath him, a hard surface that unhelpfully brought attention to the fact that Tim had sustained more damage from the crash than he'd like to admit; a vague pain supported that theory, ghosting over his tailbone and shoulder blades until it settled in his head. He was still seeing stars, his vision fuzzed and doubled, because there was no way there were two roads, and the suddenly-multiplied number of trees hinted more at a forest than anything else.

Sounds were coming back too, the subtle ones that were important in those minor ways. Crickets were chirping somewhere in the summer night, the radio chatter on the floored officer's speaker was fizzling, and exhaust was wheezing through the tailpipe, the whole transport a chamber of dying metal that was choking out its last breaths.

The rest of it all rushed Tim when the engine fumes reached, prompting a series of coughs that forced him onto his side. Although the sharpened pain was an unpleasant experience, it was easier to work from that angle, a hand finding its way to the floor followed by another as Tim maneuvered himself into a sitting position.

The glint of a knife by his foot caught his attention.

Right.

There was an assignment that still needed to be done. If memory served, Machin would still be there. He'd been chained to the bench, so... Tim shuffled to a stand, eyes flitting to the side where all they found was a pair of handcuffs dangling there as if to mock him.

Machin'd had a lockpick.

An idea flashed through Tim's mind right then. Maybe it wasn't a trap for him. Maybe someone was innocently trying to spring a convict, smuggling him tools, and that explained this whole turn of events. But…

" _So_ you're _the one he wants._ "

No. No, it was a trap for him, Tim was sure of it. But why just him? And who'd been the one to organize it? The pronoun of choice hinted at a man, and it'd have to have been someone who knew Machin, likely in his Anarky identity. But…they'd have to be distant, too. (Machin didn't seem aware of the entire plan.) Bruce Wayne was out of state, so Batman was off the table. But who was it then?

Tim returned his knife to the scabbard at his side, quickly deciding that he didn't want to stick around and find out. He'd look into it later—find both Machin and his answer, but right then, slipping away would be the best route to take. So long as this mystery person wasn't Batman, he could manage that, keep a cool head and disappear.

Tim took a small step toward the open door of the transport, moving a careful foot over the leg of the still-collapsed officer, when the space suddenly darkened. For that one instant, all the light in the world was stolen, lost to that shadow as it spread across the floor. Tim stared at the new patch of darkness, processing everything about what and _who_ it meant, before pulling his gaze upward, slowly and painfully. Because Tim had done everything to avoid this very encounter, avoid the pair of white eyes that were currently looking back at him with enough intensity to make Tim's blood run cold.

Because despite his best efforts and logic and chance, there they were once again: a Talon and a Dark Knight.

* * *

 _AN: *All of Lonnie's backstory in this is correct up until the part where it's mentioned that Bruce was the one who caught his operation. Actually, it was an in-training Tim Drake who brought that to light (probably a few months before this chapter if you were to line up canon with this story here), and during Tim's stint as Red Robin, Lonnie served as his personal Oracle. They've got some history, those two. Also, pre-N52 Lonnie_ _—as far as I'm aware_ ** _—_** _never served time in Arkham. That change in backstory is explained later considering there was no Court of Owls in the pre-N52 universe. If there was, I feel like this teenage anarchist would've been the first to be offed..._


End file.
